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Precious Roses
Folder:
FINAL Life is a rose in blooming.
Each petal is a journey lost.
With every shadow looming,
there is a price for every cost.
We all view time as absent.
We reap to grow fields of gold.
We strive to pass the present,
with our futures still untold.
Who ever told us who we were?
Lost in a world with religion and hate.
With every diary entry written,
The meaning? Ain't life great?
The time has come for freedom.
The thorns grow sharper on our stems.
They try to tell me how I feel,
but I won't listen to them.
Why does there have to be limits?
To words, to feelings, to time?
Why do we all stand idle?
and watch precious roses die?
