Withering Red Rose

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I was a fine red rose with roots not so deep and thorns not so sharp,

built of store-bought seeds

and the water that the hose would feed.

I was not tendered and I was delicate.

When winter would come,

I would freeze for all that I lacked,

And I would become a withering rose.

For all I had grown to be,

my gardener was at fault.

He planted a white rose,

fine and sweet, as white as snow,

he learnt from me,

and white rose was built of the finest of seeds and the purest of water,

I was a mistake that was amended after the torture.

I watched at my withering state, as I was going to be no more,

the weight of uselessness was as heavy as the roots that would pull me down.

although you have learnt,

A better treatment and you wouldn’t lose me,

but gardener oh gardener,

your false belief pulls you down,

that once I’m broken, I’m never worth fixing again.

So I watch as I die,

I watch as she grows.

Eyes filled with envy, was once filled with hope.

Eyes that would bloom, drown in its tears.

And everyone thought red roses were special every year.

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