A rose, in splendor, did embrace.
With petals soft, a gentle hue,
A fragrance that could minds imbue.
Upon its stem so slender, frail,
A beauty that could never fail.
Among the blooms, it stood so bright,
A beacon of pure, radiant light.
Each morning, as the sun did rise,
The rose would greet it with its eyes.
Unveiling beauty in its wake,
As dew upon its petals break.
Beneath the azure, boundless sky,
The rose would bloom, with joy so high.
But time is swift, and days do fly,
And all that lives, must surely die.
The rose, though fair, could not escape,
The touch of age and cruel mishap.
Its petals, once so vibrant, lush,
Became as parchment, brittle, hushed.
Yet, in its passing, grace remained,
A relic of the beauty gained.
For though the rose may cease to be,
Its memory lives in me and thee.
In verses, etched with love and care,
Its essence lingers, always there.
A poem, a tribute, to the rose,
A testament to how it grows.
From budding bloom to final rest,
Within these words, its story's blessed.