Fresh.
From his mother’s garden.
A small white rose
Surrounded by nature’s claws.
A garden no weed can know.
he held onto the stem,
Wet from red tears,
That ran through his innocent hands.
his eyes,
White and dry,
Held the gaze of his mother.
Just the way he held the rose,
She was fading,
And he couldn’t imagine letting her go.
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