I am born, I sprout,
olive stemmed and stout,
my petals like a cool satin,
their flowers starting to fatten.
I feel the bladed edge,
as I’m removed from the sedge.
earth patted ‘round my roots,
as I am planted near the fruits.
I grow and I flower,
more stunning by the hour,
but soon you forget about me,
no watering, no food, nothing from thee.
Footsteps, heavy, boots!
A bang, a gun shoots.
men of War, I find out,
as I am trampled by scouts.
Guns, blood, killing and more,
I’m shocked by the amount of gore.
I’m so withering and small,
with no care at all.
Where am I?
I ask, in death do I bask?
Has your war killed me.
Or am I still that budding,
Rose in the Garden?
By: Dennis Jaka
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