Where there are roses,
Onnyx Bei
at times I feel regret. They unfold to expose
a short-lived beauty before death sets in.
In a graveyard near the sea, I ask myself,
what will become of me?
A voice that sails a wintery gale
says, roses are for the living, not the dead.
Rose hips, growing like overripe crabapples,
renew the earth with sweetness.
New blooms mask the bitter scent of waves—
the tide draws back and forth in a melancholy sea
drifting with clipped roses and words left unsaid—
pounding against tombstones.
W
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