a rose is…

she’s of a certain
age, you know, a
real beauty in
her prime but
clinging to her
withered gown
makes her look
old with fading
mane once
vibrant, sweet her
fragrance reeks of
musty death, they think
it’s time she gives
this ruse rest, the
reaper waits with
pruning shears, she’s
had her summer
in the sun, to yield
at long last, it’s for
the best, she’s of
a certain age you
know, clinging to
her faded gown but
she’s not finished,
being beautiful, not
yet, she’s not
finished, no, not yet

~kat