Photo by Corina Rainer on Unsplash
A bruised rose wounded my window sill,
The reflection is no longer a mirror.
A harp played in the silver storm—
Time bent where the silence grew dimmer.
A bruised rose wilted beneath the chill,
As shadows curled beneath the door.
A bruised rose whispered on my window sill—
“You won’t see her face anymore.”
About the Creator
Angel Aguilar
Hello,
Welcome to my writing world where I practice my short stories, poetry, and free writes
✨Instagram: Aguilarwrites
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