An Ancient Guest Treasures an Immortal Rose


While dusting some very old books
Today an old naked book drew his eyes
With his right index finger
Tapped out the ancient guest
The devastated state of it
Pleaded for a read
Who says only heart houses
The remotest of secrets
Fingers too know the trajectory
The middle finger opened
Page one six nine
To his surprise the rose was still
The same crimson,bloody red
And it’s bleeding marks strewn over countless places
Can he recall
If it was somebody’s
Or he himself hid for someone
That his coward heart
With no mustered chivalry
Failed to slide into her diary
On the library desk
The embers of heart’s failure
Still billow smokes
And he looks for a urn made
With the ink of his soul
To treasure the marks of immolation


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