Life like.

On a feathery bed with rose petals around, Surrounding a rose, And with the kiss of death upon the rose, Sleep with absolute peace, Nothing awakens, Nothing moves, And nothing lives. A dying rose, Which loses its beauty, And the wonderful sent it used to have, And is no longer a rose, Is no longer living, It becomes a symbol, For life and death, I seem to be almost life like in it’s self, With beauty that dies, In a short amount of time. Almost human, Almost as rare, Almost as special, Almost as dead, And just as life is like others. This rose may be dead but still alive at heart, Nothing is perfect, Nothing is fair, Life is hell, And nothing is well. This rose is like life itself in itself. And nothing is more dead than life itself. And nothing last's forever either. So as this rose dies, A part of me dies with it. No longer strong, No longer beautiful, No longer special. This rose is a part of me, Now and forever. No one cares weather it lives or dies, Except me. I care about this rose, For it finally understands life, When it’s too late to change anything about it. The life of this rose may have been short, But long enough for it to mean something, To me at least. So as I watch this rose whither and die, I think about all you people, Who just don't understand and may never. I hope you find the truth in the light, Before it's too late. Written December 18th, 2001 © on Dec 18 2001 04:20 AM PST   10 • 0