ROSES

She sat,
Sat under the sinking sun,
She waited,
Waited for something to be done.
Blew a sigh,
Looked at the sky,
Head held high.
Strolled,
A queen wearing a golden crown,

Face etched with a damaged frown.
She held up the delicate rose,
Brought it to her pale nose,
Felt a prick upon her finger,
But let the crimson liquid linger.
And finally,
It dawned;
She was,
Indeed flawed.

Munira Janoowalla
Form III

 

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