“Desert flowers, all what is left is their thorns”

Desert roses,

cut through me as a butcher’s knife.

I tear apart as If I were paper thin.

Staring at the limitless hourglass.

All the time I have,

all the time I have lost,

to foolish truths and lies.

Nothing means anything anymore,

when it falls back in time.

Desert flowers,

all what is left is their thorns.

As the pedals come off the

majestic roses seem all

of a sudden as a mirage.

How was I blinded by their beauty?

————————————————-

All rights reserved Odelia Rozenfeld

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