My Last Rose

Have you seen my rose? Upon the breath of a young man’s wish, I dropped a rose by your door. Each thorn held a gumdrop, and a wreath of ribbon adorned. The red was a slight touch of sunshine reflected with autumn leaves. The stem bent slightly to the right, but so cute once rotated slowly. Only such a rose could hold a scent so soft and bright, it flowed easily about, hinting of full gardens of delight. Have you seen my rose? The green leaves issued a sense of peace and longevity. The petals numbered an odd number, not too many, nor too few. While looking at it so, I felt only a child’s joyful tears should feed it. Please… have you seen my rose? The velvet-feel pales only to a mother’s whisper upon an infant’s cheek. Or the dying last “I love you” from an ageless lover. Have you seen my rose? No… I guess you haven’t. My rose would be hard to miss. After all, it was my last rose to give.