Poem -
and Gosh,
He never lost the
Roses in
His cheeks his hair
The swirling air about
Himself as if life knew
That bloom he must in
Years so few and
Gosh, rose perfume
Lingers still by
Greying stone
On primrosed' hill the
Scentless flowers
Small and meek with
No rose in the ground
Around
Cept him
and Gosh,
M ~
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