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.