UH ( / )


At the incline
Of the mountain,
Wild roses bloom
Dark red
Like the puddle
Of blood
At a murder scene.

I slowly walk alone
The hillside of isolation
Like an Easter Parade
Depleted of joy
And reduced to a funereal dirge.

I don’t think,
She will ever understand
How badly I was hurt
When she refused to acquiesce
To give me her hand.

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 2 votes ) 4

Comments (4)

Your depth is bottomless, bringing forth the beauty in your pain and sadness... I've been missing your writes. Amazingly deep and vivid. Thanks! Lee
Touching and sad...Those wild roses must be very very red! Hugs, Dee
Uriah, you have such a talent for turning sadness into beauty. Hugs Anna xxx
No one speaks the language of sadness more eloquently than you do. Beautiful, as always, Uriah. Warmest regards, Sandra