The Garden Rose

I wandered in through the front door,

I looked around, across the floor,

After coming in, hands so sore,

Through the house I tore.

 

As I picked, as I chose,

As I snuck around on my toes,

Seeing through a screen, I froze;

There I saw that rose.

 

I went out the back,

Looking out away from the shack,

Resting on pots that were in a stack,

Flowers in a pack.

 

I reached to open the fence,

To see that I had stumbled upon chance,

Seeing the colors dance,

Put me in a trance.

 

But there sat that flower,

The one with the most power,

Which taunted me this hour,

The rose like a tower.

 

It stood there in the night,

It stood against all fright,

It rose to amazing height,

The beacon of light.

 

I reached up for its base,

It began to wilt in its place,

I hurry and I race,

Before they give chase.

 

As I held it in my hand,

It was too late, dead, bland,

The rose that once was grand,

That shone to the land.

 

I now lay, cold, alone,

In my new home of stone,

Where sorrow is the tone,

Pray for that which shone.