Rosebud Poem by Joe Bisicchia

Sound of a name may dissipate, and thorns can spike
the hand. And roads are lined, melted away, remembered
or forgotten, or never known.
Snowmen have come and gone.
Snow globe is shaken in a flurry, maybe fallen and done.

This I hear, somewhere through the falling snow, a name.
While you hold all your heart upon the grain of fingerprints,
even though this dark night you shall release a dying hand
like a petal, know by mercy there is much more to a soul
than what a hand could ever hold.




Published by Rabid Oak,2018