Rose

Somewhere in this garden
lie a slow dying rose.
Brittle and dry pedals
tightly packed together,
slowly drying out in unison.
The sweet scent has faded,
the lush red body now
tiny and gray.
Not even the graying thorn
is sharp enough
to accidentally prick
an oblivious passer by.
She lie hanging the only rose
in a thicket of pointy branch and vine.
When once hungry bugs would
chew at her nourishing loins
the busy creatures now
crawl over and around her,
occasionally sitting atop her head
to admire the view.
On particularly cold, clear,
moonlit nights, the nearby daffodils
can hear Rose sigh.
A ghostly sound, her breath stretches
only an inch, mixing in with the cool breeze.
"These sighs are not apologies"
cries Rose
"These breaths are not regrets.
What was taken from me was also given,
for I have never possessed excess, but
have been claimed by many
to be amongst the bounty."
The posies can only look away with saddened jealously,
shivering in the chill.
Icy water has gathered on Rose,
the cold perspiration sometimes softly drips below,
drowns a few ants, and sends the others scurrying about.
This is as close as Rose ever comes to crying.
She hangs her head and a flaky leaf
breaks and drifts swiftly away.