The Wilting Rose

A rose is born a rosebud—

a simple unblossomed thing

that was stuck (unwittingly) in the ground

and forced (unwittingly) to grow.

It is compelled by nature

(or perhaps its own nature)

to grow, to bloom, to flourish,

and then might grow into something beautiful

(and devastating)

A sight to behold, tall and thorny

with petals of crimson passion

and a stem strong to withstand the storm

of time and change of season

When the first frost comes,

the red rose stands tall—

its petals falling like blood

against the snow

(and bleeding)

And when the first hands come

to pick, and pluck, and uproot

the thorn will fight back, draw blood

of its own; to keep that rose grounded

But the storming keep raging,

the frosts keep settling the ground.

Even with the sun returning,

those rough hands come back again

(and uprooting)

Even the strongest of stalks

could not withstand when

the world crashes and falls

down on it, for beauty destroyed

A scar in the ground where

a once beautiful flower once stood.

Naught but dead petals there

now, trampled by time and greed

(and wilting)