Passion Scars

Death of hope

A dozen white roses burnt in the flames,

a flower each, for the women of the past,

the fire ignited by these heartless names,

devours not just the petals but also the lover aghast.

From the ashes of its pyre the phoenix shan't rise,

for gravity pulls harder in this land of despise,

the gust from his waggling wings does not suffice,

because when he fell in love he signed off on his own demise.