Enthusiastic Soul
Connie Peters' poems in progress
Thursday, October 15, 2015
10 9 15
The Inn
It smelled of roses,
the inviting, comfortable inn.
They say it’s where Rose died.
In the night, you can hear her cry.
Living with ghosts
doesn’t grow old
when roses turn to gold.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Newer Post
Older Post
Home
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment