The deeper I hunt my heart's fort,
I unravel the moments that'll forever taunt.
I decipher that the roses inside are dried beyond dead,
To ever be offered.
Feline with fur black over white,
Solitude embraces me at night.
Cursed with the fur's fate,
Oh, haven't I endeavored surplus hate?
Tears pouring down like rain,
For all pain but mine.
Thunder amidst the boundless dark—
Is a shoulder too much to ask?
But oh, aren't there mortals,
Who treasure dried roses between the pages of books?
Who perceive light souls beyond somber looks?
Who gather hollow clouds that tear up for my woes?
Whispers of Dried Roses | Poem
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