Withered rose

In my prose

Where it grows

No one knows

It's sadly overlooked

Despite it's lovely smell

Because it grows in hell

My tender heart

My bitter soul

My withered rose

Always in a battle

A battle against time

A battle against loneliness

And words that never rhyme

My tender heart

My bitter soul

My withered rose

A rose in need of something

What it's never had

Something to tell it

It isn't all that sad

A withered rose is beautiful

In it's own dysfunction

It stays so sweet and purified

Within it's own corruption

My tender heart

My bitter soul

My withered rose

No I am so tired

Tired of this life

Where is its redemption?

For a life long fight

A rose should not be withered

But mine is tonight