I
bled
roses
at your grave…
cold garden of stone
Prayed, you’d revive from earth’s mulched bed
Tugged firm at grief’s deep roots; hands torn, turned sanguine through thorns
Watered, pruned... still, did not return
Petal’s now pillow
to gently
cradle
my
head
© Debbie Razey 2022 - Violet Moon Poetry
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