The Rose

I wrote this poem almost 25 years ago! I hope you enjoy it!

The Rose by Michael Arion

How rare her color on Autumns Eve
The cold night winds blow
From the trees falls the leaves
But the color of the rose still glows

Soon this flower will begin to wilt
Her petals begin to fall
Hear in the distance a hurting call
As a man shovels the silt

Death has risen upon the land
Sorrow is heard from afar
Death has taken a maidens hand
Leaving an open scar

How rare the color of a rose
That rests upon a grave
Only a lover Knows