The book on the shelf held the timeís we had.
Within its cover held the pitchers of times forgot.
Of the things we did and the things we saw.
In its pages there is a rose.
Press in the pages of faded memories.
A tear falls of a day forgotten.
A love lost.
A question unasked.
A word unspoken.
All comes back from a rose in a book.
Fear came from the unwillingness to speak.
All locked up in a rose in a book of memories.
The sine of the rose in its beauty means a lot to a love.
The word spoken is the key to the rose that brings happiness.
Love comes in all forms but the true st is in a single rose.
And now itís locked up in a rose in a book of memories.