A soft goodbye.

by Zetta Yale   Apr 22, 2005

The misty moonlight drifts along
the fragile petals of a pure white rose.
A soft Zen melody floats on the air,
as I sit here and think of times past.
And slowly but surly I pull the blade across, watching the first few drops of my life blood drip down off of my wrists, And in the now silent garden I watch as the Roses turn red.
I take in my last breath in a soft Goodbye.


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