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Mother’s Rose

The rose is a symbol,
It’s been one for years,
Of love and devotion
To soften the tears.

A symbol of trueness,
Of brighness of heart;
A symbol of courage
That will not depart.

While roses are living
That symbol strikes true;
But soon they grow weary,
They wilt, and they’re through.

Your love, Mom, is constant
And though mine’s just begun,
Our love fits that symbol
In all ways but one;

Our love will not perish
Nor drown in the rain;
Like a rose made of crystal,
Our love will remain.

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.

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