Life & time

White roses-
summer’s bloom,
on her bed of thorns she sleeps till noon;
Her skin so pale, as white as snow,
as cold as summer, in the Arctic glow;
Empty spaces, in light brown eyes,
shadows of a past, in tattered disguise;
White roses-
summer’s bloom,
on her bed of thorns she sleeps till noon.

Patiently feeding, off ragged souls,
she fills the spaces, of her heart-shaped hole;
She waits for none but passes all,
and in her wake, all but fall;
The bold, the mighty, the cowered still,
the beast, the beauty and spineless ill;
White roses-
summer’s bloom,
from her bed of thorns she rises with the moon.

And the roses run red.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar

Pen it... or aaa type it. u know what i mean.

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