A dying rose yelled at the blackened sun to wash the rain away.
It stood there unrelenting in its approach.
It’s as if its perpetuity went astray.
Tell me why did you grow thorns when you were always meant to be sublime?
Lifeless petals clasping to the Earth’s flesh staining the soil with crimson hues.
Melting in crevices showing what it is to become.
The sweetest aroma filled the air as nature awakened.
Butterflies consumed the atmosphere as humanity garnered.
Tell me why does the beauty die?