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I see
the roses
in you, the
delicate
petals of
of being
human,
the thorns
of us have
broken
the chains,
our feathers
glide when
darkness
once
wished
to down
the soar
of our
wings,
feathers
glide from
loud howls,
floating
up to the
place we
call as
truth.
We look
upon the
the flowers,
thinking,
“I was once
you, before
my eyes
were known
to your
bloom”
the wind is
lifting the
petals
gently as
wanderers
of the sea,
the night
falls,
us and
them
are as
blinking
stars,
floating
almost
endlessly,
unaware
of the
lights
we give,
and yet,
unwavering.
Ruheen Apr 14
I don't like flowers
But there's one where you can see through its petals
It doesn't shroud what's right in front of me
Without permission
I see what it's hiding
It understands my desire
To reveal the concealed
And beneath it's milky veins
A clear glass frame
That we call petals
Each a frail skeleton
It'll crumble in my fingers
And vanish entirely
The petals will shatter
As if it was nobody
Little
flowers
opened
as you
kissed me
lightly,
the petals
under the
moonlight
dance,
we wore
the robes
of the stars,
and gazed
upon the
tides, we
wondered
how they
beheld
a dream,
always
there
as the
sea of
our
arms,
gilded
in silver
scales,
returning
to a
home
where
you keep
these
hands of
mine
close, be
delicate,
for you
hold my
heart
and
yours.
vanessa marie Apr 12
i went to the market today
i bought myself a fresh bundle
not of your favourites, but of mine
of yellow and blue with green stems

tonight i will fill the mason jar fresh
with water and petals floating alongside
and i will watch as the petals drop
one by one i save them, dried

tomorrow i will go to the market
i will walk to the water and smile
i will skip rocks on the shore
and watch the waves stretch out for miles

i will keep those petals in a jar
those of green and yellow and blue
i will remember their place on my shelf
i will always remember you
The poet
of the night
closed her
eyes, and
dreamed of
little stars
as details
in the small
moment of
beauty she
beheld, as a
painting
once hidden,
now coming
alive before
her eyes, as
wondrous
as when
she had
first
met the
pages
of a book,
and held
them
more
dearest
than the
petals of
a flower
held close
to her
heart,
forever in
bloom.
Jme Love Dec 2021
He loves me
He loves me not

The rose is dead
All the petals have been plucked

Careless with love
Just as with the rose
Its no surprise it whithered and died
It was picked
Plucked
Thrown to the ground

As for the rose tho....
Well you know how the story goes

He loves me
He loves me not
Its just a dead rose now
annh Oct 2021
i am over without the easy|
sometimes a cup without a saucer|
often shoes without socks|
but mostly i am legs running and arms whirling

in a hurry to escape the day|
in a rush to fill my head with bouncy thoughts|
in a flurry of wishing flat words into fantastic stories|
of turning grey into cerulean, and rust into claret

i am questions with more than one answer|
questions which play on my mind|
answers which go around and around|
like petals of eccentricity whelmed by an eddy|
and trying to escape the day in a hurry
‘For the circle is perfect and infinite in its nature; but it is fixed for ever in its size; it can never be larger or smaller.’
G. K. Chesterton
There are so many lilies in my brain,
spreading the petals of the pain,
full of the fragrance of regret,
they are too hard to forget,
thrive and flow fast through the veins.
Indonesia, 22nd September 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
LC Sep 2021
The rose caressed my fingers.
"he loves me, he loves me not."
My eyes could only see red.
"he loves me, he loves me not."
Ready to peel the sweet bud -
"he loves me, he loves me not."

His gentle fingers grazed mine.
"I love you, I love you so."
His eyes were milk chocolates.
"I love you, I love you so."
The petals clung to the rose.
"I love you, I love you so."
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