The rose; once beautiful and strong,
now death towards tend,knowing it won't be long.
Frail it stands; and the wind that once brought pollen,
blows just as hard to see it fallen.
It,once a symbol of love,
Now does crave,
For a taste of what it once gave;
That liberating feel of love,
For what's it now to a wing-clipped dove?
A stranger to the sky it once graced above,
Reality painting,as.   temporary relations
what it once held as eternal love,in the frames of its imaginations.