A monument blooms

On the top of a hill

Not known by many,

But it is there yet still.


A memory forgotten

From torment and tears

For a bordello once stood…

In the spot it appears.


Perhaps it is there,

For the souls left unborn

From the most wretched of fools

That could not care more.


Its beauty you will find

In the coldest winters snow

A single white rose…

Gods monument of woe.

-Antony King  © 2018







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