Death Wish

It happened on the thirty-fifth day of summer
A rosebud came to life, albeit stealthily
Propped by thorns, bent by its weight
It blossomed, sheltering dew on its red petals

Sixty five hours of its exuberant life
Brought along a sinking feeling of death
As a petal broke slowly, and slid to the ground

Panicking, it bloomed bright and fragrant
And called out to everyone who looked at it
Save me, from being forgotten

Three boys ran past it, so did some retired gentlemen
And none touched the rose
In due reverence of the sign, “Don’t pluck”,

It was left to a bloke reading poetry.
Stumbling along the path, he absent-mindedly
plucked the rose and spread its petals,
to bookmark a poem titled, ‘An immortal rose’