Roses

A short poemthat means a lot.

Every year the Roses arrive,

 

Every year he remembers,

Each word written is from his heart,

But the feelings lay dismembered.

He brings her the flowers himself,

He whispers words so sweet,

He cries a silent tear for her,

As he lays them at her feet.

When they married he carried her,

Across the threshold smiling,

But ten years later he carried her,

To where she now is lying.

So he will come each February,

To bring her roses red,

He will come and whisper love songs,

And kiss her stony head.

His lover died twelve years ago,

But his love has never died,

Her body will lay forever below,

But her love remains inside.