A dew drop glistens
on the leaf of a flower,
a rose to smell as sweet.
A beauty so pure and elegant,
but a touch would prick a finger
so gently caressing the thorn-ridden stem.
A rose plucked
so carefully from the bush,
but thrown aside
when the thorns became too sharp,
the secrets far too grim to keep.
A rose that slowly withered in the corner,
each petal falling to the floor
and silently echoing in the lonely room.
A dew drop slides off the leaf
and splashes to the ground.
The rose is crying,
mourning the loss of innocence to time.