Where The Winds Hath Blown Poem by James Papastamos

A rose, a single rose, slowly but
surely bled to death, by thorns,
merciless in their cruelty,
merry with passion, feasting on my garden’s
inability to brave its mighty current

Winds whistled while they wined...and
dined, as blades of grass bowed in recognition and
much respect

A rose, perhaps another, now
dead, once bled with such profanity, at having
lost its crimson glow. But the
wind, however, was colorless, no less, and
careless, as the guilty are oft as
blameless

The wind whistles, if not
weeps...and hauntingly so, while it
waits for its next intended
victim
For where the winds hath blown
my respect had grown