Mellifluous Murmurs

Molded Fingertips Meet A Perfect Rose

Me against the rose net;

which is the more beauteous?

I ran across alleys,

hoping to discover my name–

trying to search

 for who we truly are

on the inside

 while trying to reach for a rose to get.

I'm too disheveled to have claimed such a creation

but I ran too far to go back now,

I see a rose patch;

the ones that I'm eager for it to be met

it's the goal that was burnt out of char

and my dreams that fell out crisped 

into ashes.

To be 

is a state worth living,

it is the character to keep.

I picked the rose

for I have seen how it withers into nothing;

vermillion; it would seep

I wonder for days and years

 why something so beautiful

can be gone tomorrow,

the reason is nonetheless but yet.

I tried to pounce, I tried to leap

in order to save this rose,

in order to save my mentality.

It's just another average day,

that's what it was to society

I tried to maintain a profile,

 nothing cheap

but something more than just nothing,

I had ambition to show this rose

what it meant to be alive.

I look around and quietly weep

for this rose has withered away,

the lost sound of its existence penetrates my ears, a beep, beep, beep–

I haven't a clue what I wanted to achieve.

It stabs my chest while I'm asleep,

the rose,

and I see the vermillion on my chest;

the same blood red the rose bled.

I dilate these pupils to step upon, to creep

to save myself 

for this rose is haunting me–

I feel like I have committed a cardinal sin,

a place a little too steep,

but I achieved none 

but watching this rose take

 its 

last breath

last laugh

last smile,

all because of my molded fingertips.