A Rose Tragedy

Remember what a rose means.

Stark, perfect roses

grown by machine and

bought by the masses for

mothers,

daughters,

wives,

and pretty faces.

 

Half hang on walls

drying and dying.

Watching all the feet

that walk by without

a look. All awe lost.

 

Where are the paintings of

roses in their deprived lives?

In their vase of dwindling water.

In  their corner where the

mother,

daughter,

wife

and pretty face

set them aside because

they lost their giddy feel.

 

Where are the roses

that last more than a week?

What mother,

daughter,

wife,

or pretty face

will caress them with love?

Treat them with care?

And gaze at them for hours?

 

Some say it’s better

to have been  loved

and died

than to have died

alone

 

But question the rose

and it will answer,

“I’d rather have died

alone

than to have died

in pain,

sold to the ungrateful

mother,

daughter,

wife

and pretty face.”

Reviews

[SoulofManyFaces]

This is a very good poem, and I love how you ended it.
To me I see it as people spend way too much money on
something that will die, and most are for loved ones, some
don't even derserve.

[Michael X]

This is stunning in subtle ways, it is beautifully written, sculpted and touching.

[Croissant]

Is the "prettyface" in the last line supposed to be small font? If not, it's not evident why it is so, so you should probably look into that.