Forgotten Flower

I planted you a rose; sat and watched it bloom

the rose didn't feel me watching,

or notice that I was trying to forget you.


Who do roses grow for?

Surely mine for you,


a lucious deep criminson hue,

vibrant and really quite fragrent too,


but now its wilting away,


crispy to the touch and reddish-brown,

droppily fading and down.


A fine rose it was,

really a sight of beauty,


but you never came around,

for the rose,

or for me.



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