Withered Rose by Salem Truter

An open door beside her,
Transparent through the glass-
rivers of living waters ooze
down her cheeks,
with a smile but no happiness

Transparent through the glass

mine eyes behold,as time ticks,

beauty non as seen-as gorgeousness fades,

beneath her as she seats,

a bag full of withered roses .

Ancient not of this time.

Time has no regrets,

but its crime one can tell she never forgets.

Always holding back,

she watches hopelessly each time-

with her hands on her bag

and her backside on top of them both.

The woolen cloth on her head,

invented centuries before my existence,

blinds mine eyes from seeing her beauty.

The dust on her lashes

blinds her vision and that of the

innocent butterfly in her big cocoon.

What will it inherit,

but the the tattered bag

and the bus terminus

She has turned into her private suit.