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A Rose


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The first time that a life,
Takes to love like a fragile rose,
Picks it from its stem,
And brings its smell up to her nose,

Her breath then casts a spell,
And the rose begins to wilt,
Her heart is now the petals,
Of this rose so softly built,

The rose deteriorates,
Fragile, like I said before,
She waters it with her heart,
But it only deteriorates more,

Dried and tilted over,
Like a picture of the past,
This rose is now a symbol,
Of a love that fled too fast,

Pushing through her sadness,
Her life did linger on,
When shortly after that precious rose,
A sweeter rose came along.

Jessica Alvarado
5-6-04