Set aside a rose for me
upon the dusty shelf.
Promise you won't lead them on
or find a way to tell!
This secret is upon my heart
with burdened weight to share.
Its' fragile lightness points to love,
which rendered state is fair.
My petals have grown green and brown,
have fallen off their base,
like youth and vibrance all so past
much like they've lost their place.
Each petal curls in broken spirit,
sucks against the glass.
A new one falls...
shivers...
...dies
gets lost within the mass...
I'm down to few new petals now,
so red, bright, fresh; potential-
to savor, maybe grow from these
is, to its' life, essential.
I feel if one more petal dies
my rose's life will end
and, thus to you then I will turn;
that dust rose you'll lend?
For if mine dies I'm out of luck.
I gave to it my all.
All has died of which I've lived
and, yet, I broke to fall.
Alas, just give the dusty rose!
My past and present prove
no matter how I care and try
the passion stem cuts loose.
And upon that dusty rose in hand
I'll once again give try,
but nothing will replace the first.
This rose will wilt and die.
