The Scent of Roses
It was the scent of roses,
A shiny bit of stone,
And the soft folds of fabric,
That kept me hanging on,
Long beyond the point
I knew the loss was real.
Beyond the day I knew I was
A memory, fondly held, perhaps,
But still, more a part of the past,
Than the future, I started my days
With expectation, with hope,
Touching a stone, for luck.
Old men believe in luck,
And in magic, it keeps them
From seeing their place in time.
It dulls the pain of knowing
The rest of their bridges
Will be crossed in darkness, alone.
It doesn’t hurt so much, anymore.
The images beneath the lamps
Are just shadows,
The mist has closed in
Around the bridges,
But the scent of roses, lingers on.
June 15th, 2008 at 11:01 am
Beautiful. Excellent summary of a “cold and broken hallelujah”. Yet, the scent of roses remains very sweet. For that, at least, one can be thankful.
June 15th, 2008 at 1:58 pm
Thank you, Lori.