I think my rose is wilting.
The vase chipping,
the thorns softening.

And the Lily calls,
a song on the wind,
a melody in harmony
with pedals and a euphony
of sounds so sweet.

My rose struggles to lift it's weary head
above the edge of the vase,
to look at me,
but I'm looking away.

And the Lily sings
sweet whisperings meant for my ears,
coalesceing me to where it grows
as pedals dry my tears.

I promised I would leave it,
protect it's sweet innocence,
but what does it want?
Can I really deny something that calls
to my very soul, my heart?

Oh, what could we start?