The rose sways softly in the wind.

Its lips curve in a scarlet plume.

With petals vermilion defined,

And leafy tendrils in bloom.

The rose sways softly in the breeze.

A gorgeous dew-dropped blossom.

Tickled by the bees,

Eying it from top to bottom.

The rose sways softly in the rain.

Its sadness reflected in the clouds.

All it feels is utter pain,

Trying to please the crowds.

The rose weeps softly in the field.

Its petals drooping in the grass.

The rose wishes to be concealed,

Begging the bees to stop being crass.

Buzz...

Buzz...

Buzz...

They keep swarming.

The rose keeps conforming.

Painting its pedals.

Cutting its tendrils.

Buzz...

Buzz...

Buzz...

The rose lies softly in the field.

His suffering has ended.

It seems as if he's healed.

And now he's ascended.