Voleur de Roses (Thief of Roses)


Cold and unsettled the air lays thick
with crystalline death.
First thing in the morning.
The dusting of frost looks like beauty.
Clinging to the last of the roses it grips
the tender bloom
breaking down its youth
puncturing through the delicate petal.
The rose bleeds the last of its charm
and withers.
Succumbing to fate.
The inevitability of life
punctuated with no dignity here.
But the frost is lovely.
How it sparkles in the morning light.
The thief of roses.


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