Who Knows of the Wilted Rose
by Terry O’Neal
What is to become of me
I wonder as I breathe
Pondering
The hands of time
How swiftly it passes by
Evaporating
Like a puddle in the street
Or wilted
Like a pink rose on a bush
That sprouts fresh invigorating buds
The way that I once was
Who knows of the wilted rose
Shriveled by the blazing sun
