Grey Rose

She stands so silently
Amongst a crowd of strangers
Holding a single flower
Unaware of the dangers

Her sloppily died black hair
And scars upon her wrist
Give off evil impressions
That twirl and twist

She steps before the stage
To sing a few lines
Not knowing that this
Could be her demise

She performs while shaking
She sings entirely off key
Everyone before said she was great
She asks, "What's wrong with me?"

The crowd stays mundane
Not making one sound
The only thing that had happened
Was that the audience frowned

The flower in her hand
Was once red and full of life
It turns depressing and sad
As though it's been stabbed by a knife

She's stared at, on stage
She feels as though she's on stilts
And her beauty, like the flower's
Dies once more and wilts

She walks quickly off
And bows her head to pray
A single rose sits in her hand:
Like her soul, it is grey