None of My Roses Could Ever Last Here
Running back into ashes and scrolls in the stones,
I smell the damp echo of yesterday’s home.
None of my roses could ever last here …
Though I’d hoped to find one alone by a tear.
I witness the scratches and marks on the walls.
No one but I as sweet child walked these halls.
Stories to tell yet marked fables done well,
Hidden in joy dances and sorrowful spells.
Child, are you there? If you wake I am here.
I’ve run a long way to find us home dear.
All the roses, the stories… the unmarked tears;
Left your unsweetened sorrow alone all these years.
©2012 Linda Willows