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quatrains in 8/7/8/7
The Last Rose
by adewpearl
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My trellis held a single rose
that grew beyond the season.
She would not break her stately pose
nor share with me her reason.
Each day's first light would soon expose
the answer to my question --
my rose still wore her petaled clothes
but proffered no confession.
Till one crisp night my flower chose
she would not meet the morrow.
Her secrets now with her repose,
my questions turned to sorrow.
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