Withered

 

The rose is butchered, left alone and

 scarred for life.

There is nothing

I can do for it.

My translucent tears fall as I weep

for that weltered rose. 

The silvery surrounding and the

bitter bite of the air

is a beacon, a tribute, for that

withering away rose.

Alone, oddly, it stood.

No other rose, flower or specie

accompanied that rose.

I stand,

dark hooded and silent,

to watch the once red rose,

turn to a pale yellow and brown,

with its dark veins showing the rose

clinging on to its life.

It’s beautiful.