The Rose

It is a rose.

On the bush.

It is old.

Its color is fading.

It looks as though it is coated in dust.

I blow on it.

Trying to restore it youth.

Trying to blow away the dust of time.

Instead a petal falls off.

I have brought it closer to death.

I'm a murderer.

I feel guilty inside.

Until I see the new bud.

On a different branch.

On the other side of the bush.

It is pink.

Its color is still beginning.

It is young.

On the bush.

It is a rose.