©1998-2000 Veronica Harwood
A rose, now long dead,
A wrinkled beige, never again red.
Bend to smell a mem'ry forgotten,
Up drifts the faint scent of the autumn.
Crisp brown leaves begin to dance,
To the music of the wind, made from pure chance.
In the wind echoes I hear,
Of silent sobs, and prayers and many the tear.
A photograph now the colour of faded cream,
The youthful smile is only a dream.
The young girl, isn't she dead?
Was she not raped then shot in the head?
A parson preaches against our sinful needs,
Forgetting his own cheating deeds.
Late at night he leads a double life,
The woman he's with is not his wife.
We live, We hope, We smile with forced joy,
But really, it tis a hopeless ploy.
It seems life is a game of dice,
One wrong move and you'll pay the price.