I planted you a rose; sat and watched it bloom
the rose didn't feel me watching,
or notice that I was trying to forget you.
Who do roses grow for?
Surely mine for you,
a lucious deep criminson hue,
vibrant and really quite fragrent too,
but now its wilting away,
crispy to the touch and reddish-brown,
droppily fading and down.
A fine rose it was,
really a sight of beauty,
but you never came around,
for the rose,
or for me.