The Dying Rose.‏ Poem by kevin wekesa

So alive...so soft, she smells nice and is pleasing to the senses,
all you can do or even think of doing is touch her...smell her...
she clads the brighest red...she stands out on pretences...

So you take her in your hand...she pricks you but you still dont let go,
her conversation is out of this world and her presence is un-avoidable...
So you hold her tighter...she pricks, your bleeding,
but its a small price compared to the beauty you have to carry around,
her beauty...her elegance are all your needing,
suddenly her red starts to fade, her skin becomes ashy.

Its a bitter sweet symphony, your not even sure where all this is heading,
she still pricks as her face dries up and becomes crunchy,
but she still got that sweet smell that she always had.
Her red remains so but a bit pale,
ur still bleeding...paying her all the attention you do not notice,
do not notice that all the bleeding will have you dead.

So you take her to bed and with her you lay...
As you lay you pray that the night will be away,
so that when you awake...a walk you may take.
But it was not to be...for when you awoke, more red had faded away,
and all the red that is left is the red from your palm.
Even her sweet scent is now gone and you are starting to notice...
Starting to notice that your palm has good numb,
and whatever your holding to died a long time ago.
And whats left is pain...pain thats making you feel dum,
why did you hold on, why didnt you move on...
Its dead...it was bound to come.