There’s a crimson splotch painted on the side of the road,
Resting amongst the ruins of broken glass,
Such a pop against the black and grey.
This was not meant to be a final resting place.
Someone once cared for this rose,
They plucked the thorns so it couldn’t hurt.
It has been preserved to a perfect crisp.
Its vibrancy turned almost black.
Heat has tapped the liquid.
There is no colour and no life.
It has hung its head down in eternal defeat,
Stubbornly refusing to turn to dust,
It doesn’t even rustle with the breeze,
Or spark against the drops of rain.
It’s just beautiful road ****.