the words
that were never said
the alphabets
that were never inked
the pages
that still glares blank
the seed
that was never sown
the plant
that never sprouted
the bud
that never flowered
yet,
the Red Rose prospers
sending a flicker of hope
to this beatless pulpy engine;
the folded, brown crispy pages
scents like a fresh blush
at the touch of his fingertips;
but,
the lurking greys shroud the blue
whiffs quiver the ruddy petals
rains whip on the glass panes;
drizzle grazing on the frozen sheets
erasing the last trace of memories
thumps surrender to thundering.
PC: earthstory
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