A rose is plucked from the garden of Eden,
displayed in the portico for a while.
And as it wilts its slowly forgotten,
cast away, kept in the shadow of an aisle.


Its fragrance is lost,
the petals are dry,
its stem is brown,
there is a silent cry.

Resurrection

Conviction lost,
things waver.
Lesser fruits
and time to savor.

A goal is set,
something to focus on.
The sun is rising,
with a whole new dawn.

Last piece of doubt
is slowly shredded,
a stupid little light bulb
slowly radiated.

Chalking a plan I may stumble on a thing or two,
To pick me when i fall, I know I will have you.