androgyne

I like writing poems. Here is one I wrote recently. There are often random reflections, and I like poems that offer only a little insight and require the reader to understand them.

Wilting

And now that shes gone only a wilting rose remains,
Her love it was not love, by any other name,
The flower rots and dies as all good things must end,
So that which looked beautiful and smelt divine,
Now appals in aesthetics and repugnance to offend
From beautiful life to a pitiful death such a narrow line,
That only grows smaller with the passage of time.