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Bombs and Roses

The roses sway in my garden blood red and white,
They are heavy with wet dew from the morn,
Yet something is not right with my garden,
The bombs begin to fall from the grey sky,
When they are gone the only thing in the town that stands is one rose,
One rose shall now stand to mark the graves of the fallen,
This is the tale of the Bombs and Roses


(This ones crappy but I figured I had to write one and I write all of my poems off the top of my head)