Withered

 

The rose was planted

And flourished into such beauty

Vibrant and full in colour

Standing conspicuously

In a bed of other roses

It welcomed the heat of the sun

And when a breeze came

The rose would move with it

Wavering in line with the other roses

Wavering in fluent motion

It wasn’t the rose that grew from concrete

No, it grew with the others.

It moved with the others.

It was a rose.

 

 

Before winter came

The rose began to wither

Wither before the other roses

Too early

In the midst of autumn

It withered as fast as it flourished

It withered

at the peak of its beauty

The rose began to lose its emotions

The colour of red buds

Until it became bare

Stoic in its bed

Staring at nothingness

Not willing to dance

With the other roses

It was not even a reflection

Of what it used to be