Poetry Drawer: Where Have All The Flowers Gone by Mark Sheeky

decay rose

Sleeping alone, with a song.
Where have all the flowers gone.

Stalks of green straw, rough,
and petals decayed and floated away,
with pretty scents.
Leaving their harsh hay,
and the acidic perfume taste,
of old age.

They were always there, not here.
In a stall, or the sun.
The weak weak yellow push
of the beams of the sun.

Where have all the flowers gone?
Sleeping alone, with a song.

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