A Dead Rose

The rose grows unbalanced to the right Because she is deprived of light, Water is scarce, but when it can run, The rose soaks it up and leans into the sun, Her thorns are stunted and endearingly tender, Though this means they do not have strength to defend her, Her petals are thin and so easily torn, Such a delicate flower the bush never had borne, But far fairer roses selfishly surround her, And this is how the gardener found her. So pull out her petals so pretty and pale, And break off her prickles so fragile and frail, Then cut off her head and leave her to decay, Tend the wilier roses and just walk away. And as her sap weeps as she withers and rots, The rose is watched smugly by the flowers in their pots, And as she lies dying in darkness on the floor, They turn to the sun and lounge in it some more, And when the rain washes the dead rose away, The flowers are asleep and have nothing to say.