Roses are dead
Roses are dead, violets are too i regret their
putrid fragrance,wrinkled petals depresses,
morning breezes brought dew.
Doses are bad, violence is too.
Solar flares strewn over gloomy sights, eyes of purple-bluish hue, bruised leaves clouded by discontent, precipitations of sadness falling with asunder showers.
Frantic pacing of retreating footsteps, when dawn and dusk merges in anticipation of her leaving the devil’s lair.
Poses are sad, silence is too
Wound healed not by suture.
As the sun descents the moon rises,and this chapter is brought to an end.
After all roses are dead.
Lebogang Scooter
(Lesotho)
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