A Shape

I'm reaching out into the darkness 

not knowing what I'm will find

I grab a shape that fits my hand 

and pull it to the sunlight

It's soft and probably fragile

It's more then just a shape

My wrist reaches the sunlight

And slowly I open my hand 

The light on my fingers tips

Inside of my tiny hand lies the head of a blood red rose on it's deathbed

The summer green stilk

covered in thorns is gone

The blood red rose gladly shares its color with the light

and thanks god for being a rose

then it disappears never to return.

Reviews

[Eva Rosehill]

I found this poem quite beautiful, it admires the simplicity of a rose and how in death it still is admired. I enjoyed reading your work and I hope to read more!

[SuddenlyWinter]

Thank you very much, It means alot to me :)