The death of an idealist.

An idealist lies, grasping her last breath.
In the wake of morning, she grips her hateful death.
Realizations, come to late to spare
A fate ordained, a fate too ill to bare.

The shadows are cast, darkness spares her face,
Her longing gone, hate now has took it's place.
Her ideals do naught but leave her bare --
Her quiet soul, where love did linger there.

And as her life slips slowly out of reach,
Her breaths comes calm, her eyes begin to seep.
An angel dances softly 'round her grave,
And dries her tears, leads her to where she's safe.

For now there lies the wisdom that she knew,
For on her grave, a single, white rose grew.