Dust On The Rose

I think it's time for this poem. I wrote another one titled Homeless. It says what it says and means what it means. Another writing can't really be called a poem. It's mainly just a message
to myself.

Standing high on the mountain side,
Lookomg at forever,
The barren land and the single rose
Reach deep into my memory.

Running far across the plain
The wooden statues stand
The barb threads run to the end of time,
Stealing your freedom from you.

The old weather beaten shack
Atop the mountain range,
Its tumbled and gone now
Left empty for so long.

Now he lives in a sea of grass.
The clear blue sky to share his day.
The soft blowing wind forever there,
Caressing the rose of the morning.

There is dust on the rose in the quiet
Of the morning--as the last petal falls.

Written in 1975.