When a rose withers- Poem

It’s only the Loveliest Roses that

pull their roots from the earth,

perpetually pluck their petals,

prune themselves from existence.

All thorn and stem, they think, until it’s true.

They never inhale the redness of their radiance

Or understand how they enrich a garden.

When their vibrance withers and they’re

Strewn across weeds like Tornado debris,

the world will *mourn*

And say, “what a shame. Here’s a hotline."