Bleeding red, the petals of a falling rose; a yonder beauty left withering alone in a hurricane of desolate blows. A graceful danseuse under the summer rain, my charming rose once wore dew drops of diamonds, a celestial wreath adorned on her imperial frame. In her body seeped a circulating sensual rage; an innocent face, outrageous passion too raw for a layman’s taste.
No longer a reigning majesty, she was a fleeting miracle ruined by time’s ghostly fallacy. An outcast, a dethroned monarch with a halo of thorns, an agony across her forehead’s arc. Fading rouge, wiped out hues, reduced to a forlon art in ancient ruins.
Beautiful rose, it’s time to bid adieu, a much wronged widow in a funeral of grave solitude. While in your glory you had your army of devotees, how my heart aches to see your dying ashes scattered without a melody in the whirling breeze. My beautuful rose, on your death bed, shall I stand with folded hands, a lament in my lips, an ode to your memory, a moment of silence before you decide to leave me.