30 Mar 2020 👓

Put Down Your Obsession

Come child, the sun is gone
leave the land of animal whim.

That shrub, to which you were so drawn,
nod goodbye, it's not your kin.

A flower you loved not for being a rose,
but 'cause from the ones that grow,
it was yours to claim.

Come put that rose to rest,
there are more; just the same.

Waiting to love, from all those who pick,
you; who glimpsed and on a whim,
picked this rose in your childish game.