Weeping rose

‘They came for the gypsy’s
And I was not a gypsy, so I did not speak out’

And although my face stung with tears,
At the sight of a heritage being washed away,
My inner workings turning against me,
With pangs of guilt, my helpless soul,
Crumbling like a dying rose,
My weary hands reaching out, frail and un-kept,
Turning over the next card, where a million Skelton’s stare back at me,
Disillusioned, whose death it is, is unclear.

‘Move on!’ they shout, but where to when the very ground
Seems to uproot itself, playing a game of kiss and chase,
Moments of tenderness intertwined with moments of weakness,
Yet the trees will remain where they have always been,
When we are all dead and gone.