The Rose
He gazes at her picture,
Yellow and brittle with age.
He remembers when she left,
Running out in a fine rage.
It goes in a box with her stuff,
A rose frome Valentines Day.
It's petals now black,
The leaves starting to decay.
Memories pass before his eyes,
As tears slip down his cheeks.
He whispers her name in the silence,
But life is still cold and bleak.
He shuffles to the room they once shared,
Not a single beam of light penetrates the gloom.
He sits down once again,
And glances about the room.
As he sits there he grows old;
Grey, and withered with age.
Until he resembles her rose,
Alone since that fateful day.
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