A Dying Rose

I awake, alone, in a strange garden,
Being forced to consume polluted rain,
Exposed to many random stunted suns.
I can no longer feel the winds, just pain.


Plucked in my prime! I've now become grotesque,
But a shadow of my former beauty,
Dying in the pocket of a stranger.
Nothing but a temporary trophy.


My aroma dwindles, my petals wilt,
My stem and my leaves are brown and brittle.
Now I am presenting nothing but thorns.
I'm falling apart, little by little.


Whilst i'm in this fatal and forlorn state,
I can't help but drift towards thoughts of home,
An animated and vibrant domain,
Where my kin reside and birds and bees roam.