CPoetry

dark, crimson roses speak to me. clandestine with their whispering words. conspiring thieves attempting to swindle precious rubies. their thorns coil around my ears bleeding a barbed-wire pain with their whispering words--- they tell me--- "The cemetery is paradise. Let's take a walk." is there a Universe or namely God that can come between the stem and the thorn of the rose? ::: a heart of resiliency is the offspring of the actions and sustainment of hope. ::: there was an old man who they called the Quarter Man. he lived a modest, quiet life in a small farm house on the outskirts of town. he was not a religious man, nor was he particularly spiritual, but people admired him. he was a wise man. he carried with him, a quarter, everywhere he went. people in the town would often seek his advice or came to him for temporary refuge. most of them would come to him with afflictions of the mind--- delusions, fears, worries, grievances, and so on. each time, he would take a quarte