The Rose

Petals of deep red and velvet mature together and concealed
Knowing the warmth of sunlight, their beauty is exposed

Flourishing with unscathed perfection, it lives.
Alone.

Each passerby takes a moment in admiration,
Though they dare not try to claim it as their own

Such splendor deserves this courtesy.

Summer. Autumn. Its will is life.

Through winter, it survives; damaged, though intact
Spring begins anew, somehow still noticed

Always envied.

Scarred and tired, the rose remains with its thorns
The light which once brought such warmth begins to deceive

The most beautiful petal falls to the ground.

A passing stranger takes one wrong step,
And as he leaves, he takes with him its innocence

The stem, once so vibrant and tough, strains to stand tall.

Curious and quiet, but without a conscience,
Another stranger rips off a petal with satisfaction

The rose bends further.

An unexpected rainfall adds harm and constraint
Worn from the incredible storm, still the rose stands.

Alone.

Now forgotten; its uncanny perfection has faded,
For its lingering beauty cannot be seen from far away

No one ever dares to get that close.

One by one, each flawed petal withers and falls.
If only this life had not been so cruel.

This rose was magic, destined for freedom and innocence
Not accounted for was catastrophe and malice.

It never is.

Nearly touching the ground, the stem is weak and thorn less
As the last petal holds on to its base, I watch without thought.

A gust of wind helps its graceful demise.

The last of its harm drifts off into the abyss
I close my eyes now, for I know not where I'll awake.

But I know I'll be alone.
Always alone.

-Rolo