The Rose

A single rose withers,

sitting on a shelf.

The old man whom tended it,

died of a broken heart.

His lover of the moon and stars,

had left him all alone.

Alone with his thoughts

his dreams

the darkness she left

had overpowered everything.

He sat and cried,

tucking himself into corners

He ignored the tender,

fragile rose.

His heart was broken,

and there was no turning back.

He thought of her,

as a delicate flower.

Being watched by his love,

so it would never die.

But when he died,

So did, his flower, of love.