The perfection of a rose is not long withheld;

The petals wilt, the aroma fades with time.

Ah, even the slightest hint of cold

In a September wind turns the whitest petal

Orange; The truest red, black.

On the coils of this wind

Is the sharp edge of death

Which so rampantly,

Unsparingly,

Cuts at the purity and strength

Of the single rose;

And there is no immortal petal.

The softest rose will crack with the breeze,

The lightest will tumble away from its thorns

As though cut - by some wicked force…

One wishes this sweet creature

Could be eternal and undying,

Giving it’s unconditional beauty

For people to behold until the savagery

Of hell-fire engulfs each petal; drying

Every morning dew drop.

---

In your name, I tore every red petal

From the rose. Each singed

on the edges by the late Summer breeze.

I swore to myself, with every imperfection

That I stole from this creature,

I would gain it as my own until

The last thorn was left upon this stem.

I left it, in hope it would prick another

Sorry fool,

Who began to think love was ever anything

Other than a single rose.