by
David Shipton
Forward, to a time, a time of roses and memories, of relief and remorse
Inviting the enemy, the one non-friend, he the reason, the real destroyer.
To the time, the place of peace, of release and neglect.
Forward to a time, a time of death and hopelessness.
When the roses neither grow or bloom, the life is parched clean
If this the scourge could be at peace, if it to could understand.
But this is only a price to be paid, a mindless toil for generations to come
Forward, onto oblivion, on the dead future
The rose sits withered; age, cold and death all its companions.
A grave, the grave of another lost soul, a person consumed.
Times when he was proud, when he meant so much more
Forward, a wife, children, his legacy, to live with his crime.
Copyright(C) 1997 David Shipton