Who Knows of the Wilted Rose

Who Knows of the Wilted Rose
by Terry O’Neal

What is to become of me
I wonder as I breathe
The hands of time
How swiftly it passes by
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

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