Everybody knows
    the meaning of a rose.
        The bud,
            the bloom
        The wilt,
            it's doom

It's as if flower's grace
    lives only in a vase
But it's only the cut
    that bloom to depart

A rose isn't in bud,
    not petal,
        nor thorn
A rose is a Bush
    from root,
        past stem
Those crimson hues
    atop shapes in green
        are just a product

    A moment in time

The whole is what matters
    Not metaphors in tatters

The severed may droop
                like you've finished the loop
            but all you've done
        is cut stem from root
    and in doing so
Only killed fruit.