The Dying Soul

A rose is a thing of beauty, they say, a thing of joy forever.

The Dying Soul

A rose is a thing of beauty, they say,
A thing of joy forever.
These beautiful words, all these words,
Of yesterday.

But what about the flower,
The one that does not bloom.
The special hidden rose, locked inside a shell,
The fragile human tomb?

The perfect bud is growing there,
Alive, but not seen.
Laughed at, teased, torn apart,
Always fighting to be redeemed.

To want to give so much,
ANd not being able to.
Locked away, hidden in a secret dark room.
Out of touch, out of reach - it's through.

How cruel, how mean,
Do they really want to be this way?
All they see is a weed on the outside,
But what about the bloom within today?

A flower is forever, they say,
Bringing hope to our lives,
Except for the one that couldn't get out -
It died.
Killed by the blinding darkness of day.

Dead is the bud, dead is the bloom,
The flower, the rose - they died.
No one reached in to water them,
No one tried to help them out of the tomb.

Dead is the bud, dead is the bloom,
The mind, the soul - they died.
No help came,
No one tried!


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