Paper Roses

In the rain without a destination,
I have needed no explination,
I follow where my nose will guide me,
I keep my eyes in front of me,
The carnage blocking my way on the highway,
But I have no guess as to what had happened,
And it's marked by paper roses.
Tied in a loose, mishmash boquet,
They've seen many better days,
They hold up better to the elements, and weather,
These childish paper roses.
Who were these people Fate called to die,
Who were they, who am I,
But more than paper roses.
In the dingy afternoon,
A dog howls out to setting noon,
The call of lost hope and rising gloom,
But marked by paper roses.
Home at last,
In early fall,
I have nothing left, nothing at all,
I am neither shot, or fat, or tall,
But I am in this, everything at all,
In a boquet of paper roses.
A tale told, ten thousand times,
In prose, or song, or rythmic rhyme,
My story open to all who look,
It is marked by paper roses.
What is my purpose, here in this life,
My goal, my destination, my life,
But more than paper roses.
They seem to hold place everywhere,
In what you do, and how you fare,
In childish play, entwined in my hair,
My grave is marked my paper roses

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