Craving for light, 
The little rose sways.
Within aching petals,
Captured: are the gentle rays.

Shaking the biting winds away.
Pretending a crow's whispers are at bay. 
All the while, 
Memories replay;
Increasing its thorns day by day. 

Upon the nights that draw too close
Amongst stars reluctant to share solemn glow. 
The little rose, it heeds their call.
Slowly...
Surely...

Abandoning bloom.

Yes, but certainly the sun will always rise.
Just as it is destined to set.
Acknowleging the subtle difference,
Is something the rose now neglects. 

Lacrymose, it laments till' morning dew.
Singing songs of times long forgotten. 
Blinded by sorrow, 
Imprisoned by gloom.
The rose—oh so sweet,
Yet so faint,
Seeks out such selfish warmth.

Privy, it sways towards the sky.
Clouds above are cautioned by these crimes.
Despite it all, the rose does not care.

Nor will it ever again.