..and the beauty of a rose
never dies

You picked me up
outta my garden
for you noticed my beauty
and I, too, have thorns.
But the blood on your hands
is not your own.
Had you noticed it was I who bled.
I am in silent agony that it was
I you chose.
Yet in my vanity
I perfumed the air.
Though I tried to blossom for you
and make you proud
my leaves once free and alive
under the sun
are now confined to
your vase in the corner.
Unable to speak my beauty
yet still beautiful.

Alive no more.

Akilah
copyright 10.94