Tribute to Beauty and The Beast
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.