Roses

The sun
blossomed in the East with the
quiet grace of
twelve new roses,

Which were as bright as
lightning would taste
and lit up their corner of the world
dutifully, as a father lets his guinea-pig grieving daughter
dig too big of a grave in their garden,
and then finishes the hole for her because her hands hurt
from the shovel.

To the dying sun, the
sky is one endless canvas that it
paints with soft pastels.

But with death of day
the roses shrivel
and fade
because the girl forgets to water them,
and the father is too busy
filling in the hole
to do it for her.

Author's Note

So...comments? Advice? Constructive criticism is much appreciated.

Reviews

[jonah]

okay what i got from this poem is dark, dark, and dark...and some red stain or maybe petals here and there. beautiful how you crafted this. the diction found its strength in simplicity. the imagery is good and grim. nicely done.

[Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere]

Beautiful poem. Congratulations with your first price. :)
Rudi

[Kai Rollins]

I absolutely love your imagery. It's lovely.

[StrixNebulosa]

I really like how this went, its like a thought from the third person. you have promise, Im not a gifted writer... I do like to read though... but opinions are like... elbows, everyone has got, um, two? and if one doesn't then they hopefully have one.