A Rose by Another Name
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A Rose by Another Name
In prose, I suppose and even rhymes
words, mere words can cut at times.
Still I suppose, every word is a rose.
I'm a stranger in these foreign lands,
holding nothing in my hands,
except, I suppose,
for one thorny rose.
A hidden thorn my soul has torn
and my mind and spirits bleed
I stand in pain, in pain again,
I don't know what I need.
At times in rhymes and sometimes prose,
though torn by thorns, I still suppose,
every word can be a rose.
Kymberleigh's private challenge Torn
note this is reposted and rewrit (almost to the point of being a different poem entirely) for I accidentally deleted the original I posted here last year
By blind poet
© 2009 blind poet
(All rights reserved)
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