Tribute to Beauty and The Beast

The Rose

That rose. How I hate that rose.

I hate the blemished rose; with an unsightly mark.

All my might, I wish that vase would enternally close.

This rose, holds magic that is midnight dark.

With April showers, its petals birth new flowers.

I gaze up at the graying sky,

I wait, with minutes that seem like hours.

Will this rose ever wither and die?

It can’t. We’re connected by an unseen pulse.

We share eternity, endless stagnation stage.

I hate this rose, it holds no age!

It has secrets, memories that it never discloses.

I hate this rose. But it’s the last of the magic roses.

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