The Death of a Rose

I tightly grip a deep red rose,
A stem that bears no thorn,
A simple part of natures life
Where beauty is adorned.
Without it's home beneath the Earth,
It's beauty can't survive.
In my hand it fades to black,
It lives and then it dies.
Upon the stem a thorn is grown
And cuts into my skin,
Piercing deep beneath my hand
While blood drips from within.
The pain runs through my body deep,
And yet I can't let go.
I'm holding onto absent hope
For this rose to live and grow.
I'm staring at this withered rose
Resting limply in my hand,
And bombarded by a deep regret,
I begin to understand.
I took this rose once living
From its only source of life.
I took its beauty as my own
Just to watch it die.