My Own Flowery Song

It's cold, becoming warmer
And bright but getting bland
A million things I can observe:
This tiny rose that's in my hand.
It's beautiful and brilliant,
But broken at the stem
And that's the one small evil
That I just can't make right again.

The petals twirling round it
The face that hides within
And to behold it's sweet visage
I broke it on a whim
So now its light is fading
And Chloris cannot save
For what I so appreciate,
I dug an early grave.

I tried to save you, little rose,
But you were far from gone
And while I wasn't ready
Your time with me was done
I cried and cried, and yet my tears
Weren't water that you need
When you were beauty on the bush
I pulled you like a weed

With eyes akin to Buddha I'll observe it's every side
With fingers like DaVinci I will paint it into life
With words as good as Dryden's, I can make it into prose
But without the hands of God, I've still killed you, little rose.

I'm sorry for my failings.
I'm sorry I'm not you.
And sorry I couldn't love you till I'd
Broken you in two.

So sayeth The Brad...