With the troubled wind, there blows,
The wilted petals of a forgotten rose;
A mark of time, they start to crumble,
Their deadened stem no longer humble.
Reduced to dust and faded yellow,
They fall in the stream, calm and mellow.
Kissing the water, lucid and surreal,
Replenishing their dampness, but they’ll never heal.
A rose forgotten, a stem lamenting,
The hand that picked it, not repenting.
A tear-streaked face, a heart unsought,
The rose isn’t all, the world forgot.