The rose in the book.


She picked up a book at the library
It was yellow and crumpling.
Its dog eared ends spake a story
Its water hardened pages defined its end.
She loved the smell, the aura of an old
She loved the feel, the touch of it whole.
And just as she began to read the book,
Her eyes lighted up.
For there in the pages there was,
A dry red rose parked and telling a story of a lover old.
She picked up the flower
It crumpled like it melted
Threw it away and instead planted,
Another rose but this time pink
For her story this was, and it was a little jinxed.
She read the book and let the flower be
Then returned the book to the library.
20 years thence she re-issued the book in her name
Only to find her pink rose gone
For another reader had now put there,
A red red rose with a big big thorn
She pricked herself with it
and immediately realised
That leaving a pink rose was not wise
By doing that she had left behind,
Hatred and confusion for the next in line.
For the pink flower had to be thrown away
Because it had turned dirty pink black,
Coz pink is confusion,
Coz pink is everything the red one could never have LACKED.

-Stuti

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