in the bush there's a flower
it's a beautiful rose
but the rose of ours
turns black as it snows
it quickly turns sour
but the time we had froze
it withers and cowers
with the time that I chose
it's been devoured
I gaze at the rose
such poor flower
so helpless, alone
there's nothing it could do
isolated and enclosed
the dirt we see now
was once a perfect rose
