• A rose.
    Very red and smells just as sweet.
    The petals, so alive and soft, begin to wither,
    Losing their bodience.
    The color dies in my hand.
    Its softness becomes crumply,
    Like a leaf in the fall.
    The change holds my attention,
    How things seem to die near me
    Or at my tuch.
    Am I sad?
    Always and forever.
    For, I can never experience beauty up close,
    Though I try.
    I know the outcome, but still I do it.
    Am I a monster?
    I'm not sure.