Nothing is as beautiful as a rose,
A rose whose petals have withered and died.
Browned with age, the edges blackened by the sun.

There is no magnificence as such the dry and crumbling leaves.
Lethal and unforgiving thorns, reddened
By the blood that once was a crimson petal.

There is no loveliness like the death of a thing so perfect.
Life-bringing dew that dripped from this waxen green is now soaked inside trying to ascertain sustenance it will never again posses.

The seeds scatter to the wind missing their chance to flourish and grow again.
So the roots of a long-kept treasure shrivel and expire.

Too many oils from unkempt hands.
Not enough fragrance for a million inhalations.
Murdered, by necessity.