A Cut Rose

A rose, cut
From the bush
Its days are
Numbered, it
Knows that
It will continue
To wither, to
Dry up and die

But it is taped
To the wall, and
Happy, shiny
Things are put on
It as decorations
Adorning it with
Complete falseness

It looks stupid
Hanging there, with
Hypocrisy as it
Continues to
Deteriorate until
The stick on the
Tape stops sticking

And the rose turns
To dust, without
Every knowing
Remembering
What it is like
To be a rose

To be beautiful
And inflict pain
Through thorns
And grow when
The clouds cry
Out of joy
To nurture their
Children on Earth

And laugh when
The breeze
Caresses and
Tickles the
Shrubbery, instead
The rose turns
To dust, on
The wall, away
From nature

Away from
Life, the life
Of a rose
To die and
Be reborn
As a bud
And then grow
Into a rose
Once again