I
Wilted Rose,
withered hand
Whither it goes
in shifting sand
To shape the form
in castles and storms
Tassel and cape
on wrangling worms
In sand a-shift
the withering hand
is lost,
adrift.
The wilted rose
is shedding a tear
for the living who knows
the end is near
Whither it goes?
This soul of mine
On rivers it flows
And oceans of wine
For the form and the shape
budding breast,
budding nape
For the form and the shape
growing vine,
bursting grape
O, where do you take
this soul of mine?
Whither away
this vanishing line?
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