Ode to a dead rose

A sonnet.

A dead rose is lovelier than one live,
With flowing sap and guarded thorns.
For no rose wild knew loving eyes,
Nor hands which plucked its fragrant crown.
A dead rose has been killed and hung,
Or pressed between beloved tomes.
Petals wither into withered lungs,
Fragrance stales as in age-old tombs.
A memory preserved of times gone by,
A dead rose is lovelier than one live.

Reviews

[Firestone Feinberg]

This is beautiful and as delicate as a rose. The poem makes a good point. I have pressed some roses in mytime. I know what you mean. Thank you for this gift. David

[Yan Zhang]

Thank you for the review, David. Sonnets are so fun to build.