The Rose

This rose is one of darkness,
Petals not red, nor yellow, but black,
The thorns are spiky, full of loneliness,
A rose in which happiness it lacks.
Full of sadness and despair,
its 3 o'clock now, and still waiting for that one person to care,
To tell this rose that its beautiful,
Picking it from the bunch, no one would dare.
They're too busy walking by,
So happy, in pairs.
Too busy walking by,
Kissing each other,
Picking roses for one another,
While the sun illuminates the smiles they share.
The sun no longer shines its way,
Everyday for the rose is always a cloudy day,
The wind still moving it swiftly in the dark,
The rose still wondering if people have a heart.
Its 4 o'clock now, and its still waiting around
Still waiting in central park, as its petals fall down,
One petal at a time, so slow with no sound,
Knowing its end was coming, wishing someone it found.
Wishing, wanting, and needing that love,
Facing up so it can gaze at the clouds,
To its dismay, The rose now finally has shriveled,
Falling to lay flat on the ground.

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