Death of a Rose
Many a Summer's night, the roses wept.
Not fer rain nor great Helios' blessin',
But fer the sweet parfum, or books well-kept.
Though worst o' em all, the pain o' guessin'.
Roots thick with ambrosia, petals crimson
With the blood of their brethren, a tragic sight.
Despite threats of their looming extinction,
They reached fer their Mither, full o fright.
"Genteel Gaia, where art my darling luve?"
Their roots bled, petals dead like shattered harts.
Nae nectar nor divine scripture fae above
Cuid save their wretched souls. Not even the arts.
I sit in me Mither's garden, distraught.
"Love wins" - biggest lie I was e'er taught.
- Mercurio
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