A rose's end
(edited)

It is spring.
The roses are blooming.
I see the colors of the world in one wilting bush.
There is one a deep crimson red,
the color of blood that bubbles, boils,
and rips through each of our veins.
The color of passion; and of hate.
It represents my love for you,
and of my hate for your leaving me alone.
There is one of orange.
Not just any orange. . .
An orange so powerful,
it cannot be described.
One of the brightest yellow stands off by itself,
as thought its brightness is so hot it will burn the others.
It is as hot as the sun,
yet as cool to the touch as a piece of cotton.
I see one of green.
Many shades of green in one.
The bright kelly green of the Irish,
the darkest forest green of the spruce and pine forests.
A green so deep and rich,
it can only represent our deepest and richest envy
of those around us.
I see one of blue.
It is of the deepest and richest blue in the world.
I can see the ocean swirling and churning in a frenzy.
The darkest of blues from the night sky,
carrying the mysteries of life in it.
And yet I also see the sadness that it has.
The same sadness that each of us carries
when someone has died.
The indigo stands hidden.
As though shy of the rest.
As dark and mysterious as the blue,
yet as regal and powerful as purple.
It stands silent and loud all at once.
I enjoy the hidden strength the indigo holds.
The violet stands between the indigo and the red.
Ahead of red, orange, yellow,
green, blue, and indigo.
As thought it were their king.
Rich in color,
powerful: like that of King Richard, the Lionhearted.
Understanding and meager:
like that of King Arthur.
And inside this rainbow tapestry of roses,
there stands one.
One of such angelic beauty,
it connects all of the others together in peace.
This one is a pure white with a golden crown.
It has all the colors of the others hidden withing its petals.
It is of the purest white,
that only the angels can see it;
but as homely as the snow that falls to the earth
every winter and grabs on to the trees for months on end.
This bush is my immortal beloved,
how can my words express how I feel?
Your time here is near the end. . .
But what will happen when you are gone?
You are dear to me.
When you go into seizures,
I cry.
When you breath with difficulty,
I fear that you a re breathing your last.
I know you must go, and am ready for that day.
But as ready as I am,
you leaving me is like tearing my heart from my chest,
and feeding it to a pack of hungry wolves.
The life of the roses only lasts during the summer,
but comes back every year
to remind me that summer is here,
and that life has started anew.
To remind me that life must go on.
You are that rose bush.
Your life lasts as long as that summer,
but ayou will return the following summer.
Maybe not in the same form you are now.
But like the roses, your spirit will continue.
I wish you would never die,
but when you do,
I hope you will come back as my companion for life.
If yo udo not come back to me,
and give them as much happiness as you have me.
I hope you come back as man’s best friend,
and mine.
Farewell.
Come back as soon as you can.
I love you.
Yours truly, always yours,
your best friend,
me.