When I die young,
It will not be a grand event,
Not many will attend,
Not many will care,
In fact some might be glad,
And actually celebrate my death,
A fabulous going away party; but forever,
The flutter of a single dove fills the sky,
A sorrow of the earth unseen,
The clouds do not cry,
The trees do not wave me goodbye,
The few people shed tears in despair,
And all in white,
But I in black,
A single white rose,
A mere bud,
Placed in my pocket in remembrance of my little purity,
A sign of hope for all who gaze upon it,
That even with good so little,
And evil and darkness conquering the world,
Greatness prevails,
Strikes back and does not turn away,
Even thought all one has gone into,
Thick and thin,
There is always hope,
A hope of a brighter tomorrow,
But also the fear of a cloudier today,
The white rose,
The little white rose,
Beauty with a bite,
The song within it doesn't dare not play,
For all to hear,
Young and old,
Meek and the bold,
The starving the sad,
The poor the rich,
Everyone admires the purity,
The beauty and the the honesty of a white rose,
This is what I want to be remembered as,
A single little white rose,
Waiting to fully bloom but never getting the chance.
