Hope is like a rose.
Made of green.
A small little bud.
At first unseen.

It grows and grows.
And blooms at the head.
A beautiful flower.
Of burning bright red.

The petals like silk.
Red like fire.
Inviting to all.
As it grows on it's pyre.

Then the petals fade.
They dry and they fall.
Cold nights roll in.
They die at winters call.

A rose is like hope.
Growing from nothing.
Making it self known.
Wanting to be something.

Then it withers away.
And crumbles and dies.
Hope is no more.
Into the wind the dust flys.