My love for him was strong,
Yet, we were so much alive and young.
With him, our love was new.
The more I grew, it grew.
We lived, we loved.
We cried and smiled.
I was a rose until he saw my thorn.
And in a moment, he didn't return.
Years of love gave been forgotten,
In the hatred of a minute.
Although, I know.
Love can only be healed by another love.
I hoped and waited for him.
I know this was reality, and not a dream.
Praying and hoping things would still work out between us, but he never came.
The thing is..
Love has no age, colour, height or dialect.
My thorn is part of me.
It's what makes me a complete flower.
Life like love isn't a bed of rose.
Life is full of thorns,
You can't escape it.
YOU ARE READING
Fragrance From A Black Flower
Poetry#1 in blackpoets This collection of poems is intended to give some account of the conditions in which African oral poets produce their works, and the audiences to which they address themselves. However, even the most summary account of this topic is...
