The rose turned yellow, then wore a grey fur
To keep her warm against condensation
Which worked from her source to try to woo her
But merely murdered their shared elation.
And still she opened her lips to heaven,
Assured of her worth, willing hope to fall,
Knowing her bearded neck wouldn’t leaven
And owning nothing but her strangled call.
Her leaves pressed against her, ready to mourn
The innocent beauty’s premature death
Which made bloodied lips all the more forlorn
As she choked on regurgitated breaths.
Such grandiose promises quickly die
And splatter themselves on the creaking sky.
