Withered Rose

Dew-drops glimmer,
off blood-red roses,

As their petals die,
and our hope,
closes.

They slowly droop,
heads bowed in shame,

As the colour seeps out,
a dying,
flame.

Their stalks they fold,
the thorns grow weak,

they day is grey,
washed-out and,
bleak.

The sky above,
is full of hate,

roiling and angry,
the storms don't
wait.

Our love is now,
a dying flame,

As we wither,
never,
to be,
fixed
again.