The Rose

Embedding roots in fertile earth

She twists and writhes to drink

In just weeks grown is she

Beautiful and alive.

Bathing her soft flesh in sun light

Enticing people to her bed

To gaze in wonderment,

At her inner artistry.

Unperturbed by westerly winds

Her quality does not falter

No need to strain, to keep

The perfection she has about her.

A false sense of security

The sun and shade provide

For not to long left has she

Before its time to die.

Wretched from her bedding

By coarse harsh hands

Placed recumbent with strangers

Scared, alone and in pain.

A tiring thirst sets in her roots

As she approaches her new home

A place the living dead inhabit

Hard, translucent and solitary.

Days pass in this quiet precatory

Fear, anxiety replaced by hate  

Where is the once bright sun?

Why is she abandoned?.

At first her presence people still invoked

But now she stands forgotten

With no one to be appreciative

She sheds her malnourished skin.

Old, wrinkled, shapeless she becomes

One move before the end

She prayers the seeds she,

Bore herself do not meet this fate.