The breeze passes passively
the old man too
as his gaze on the wilting rose
melts into the sterility
of a room he calls home.
And like the rose
his petals fall
and float under the golden bridge.
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The breeze passes passively
the old man too
as his gaze on the wilting rose
melts into the sterility
of a room he calls home.
And like the rose
his petals fall
and float under the golden bridge.
