Roses and Dandelions

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She was a bloom of light under the moon at night
a blossom bombardment of beauty, I surrendered
among the roses, seeking my purpose in sight
I could only sway in my place, unable to venture
 
In this garden of life, you harden through time
we wait to be picked at the picker’s consent
while roses get chosen, we’re left behind
dandelions ignored in this world of regret
 
But perhaps in the past, such a concept had collapsed
the picker will choose but choosing is hard
the decision is questioned, constantly elapsed
To accept the thorns of a rose, to blow a lion’s facade
 
One afternoon, I awoke, a broken gust of wind and boom
on the ground, her figure layed hithered suspended in time
the wind picked up in a melancholic tune
I let go of my roots as I fell by her side
 
The silent symphony of singing crickets
I whispered the words that were kept in my heart
but the wind picked her up in a matter of minutes
Away from my grasp I was left there to rot...
This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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