I found a book from long before And thought to read the book once more. The pages, yellowed, slightly torn; The book well-read, now bent and worn. And as I turned each page with care I found a rose was lying there-- The symbol of a love repressed, A rose between the pages pressed. And still the rose was bloody red While uttering the words unsaid. The rose said all there was to say So I left it for another day, And placed the novel in the den Until the rose should speak again. The discourse of a bloody rose-- The one I picked; the one I chose. And even now that flower grows And sows whatever seeds it sows. ~M