• whitewings 37w

    A poetry forlorn,
    scribbled on a tattered sheet of paper,
    lies buried somewhere
    between the leaves
    of an old forgotten book.
    Collecting dust,
    the letters begin to fade.
    So do the words,
    printed on the adjacent page.
    A rose petal quivers,
    as it lies crumpled beside.
    It is praying for the readers to stray away.
    For if anyone opens the book,
    the poetry shall survive,
    but the petal would wither and die.