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Poetry by Charles Moffat

Desolate Roses On Sunswept Gales

Forsaken on the tide, 
Mere petals in the water, 
A dozen roses discarded. 
They ride the waves, 
They endure the cold, 
The snow, the rain, 
The wind, the pain. 
They lie in desolate disorder, 
The ruins of someone's love. 
They do not wither, 
They do not die, 
The sea beats them mercilessly. 
Cruel laughter beats the air, 
I want to cry but I no longer care. 

The passion that once was, 
I see it in their misery and swirl. 
The need to be held and hold. 
What is it like, I wonder, 
To be trapped in the bounds of sinking petals? 
To not see your own suicide? 
Something I would never abide.

Website Design by Charles Moffat