Posted in of the soul, poetry

Right Regrets


words were her photo albums
she’s been called a poet
she’d capture picture-perfect moments
and keep them in her sonnets

timeless were her oldest rhymes
endless were her bluest skies
her gallery of precious times
has kept her soul alive

she’d often wish her reel would not
run out of colored threads
so she could leave behind a work
no weary soul forgets

but as her auburn strings grew short
denying her requests
with tears she wrote, “the end”
to find she had the right regrets

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Hi! I'm Rose. I fancy myself a poet sometimes... But really, I'm just a dreamer- a wonder wanderer. Words are my photo albums.

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