Elegy for a Rose

From the tattered, torn pages

of the Bible I used to read,

it fell swiftly, silently

to the floor.

The fragile petals, crimson hued

no more, did not flutter,

did not leave sweetness

lingering in the air.

The stem, brittled brown with age,

like a soul almost shattered, held

together by thin threads of hope,

I pick up with care.

Perhaps perfume still permeates

those dusty, unused pages

proof that something

once lived there.

Preserved forever as it was,

my spirit not gone unnoticed,

His perspicacity remains

though a sparrow fall.