The Weed Killer and the Rose

The Weed Killer and the Rose

It came with hush and poison breath.

No trumpet for the quiet death.

It spilled its bile across the rows,

And curled the spine of every rose.

The thorns grew hard. The petals black.

A crack ran down the garden’s back.

The soil turned sour. The sky withdrew.

The roots drank fire. The locusts flew.

Steel fingers pulled the beauty down.

A crownless bush. A petal’s crown.

The weed killer, cold and wide,

Whispered, “Nothing pure survives.”

No bees. No song. No dancing air.

Just rusted stems and hacked despair.

The mulch was thick with things unsaid.

The garden was a book gone dead.

A single bud. Its red obscene.

Twitched in the rot like something seen.

But could not bloom. Nor fade. Nor fall.

A relic nailed against the wall.

Its scent was ash. Its breath was war.

A rose that knew what death was for.

It bled through dirt. It pierced the stone.

And knew it bloomed to die alone