Stone rose.

Thing of beauty, that you are. I’ve only seen but one. But in your thorns I feel your wrath for the things that I have done. Through my mistakes I’ve made you hard. And now I stand alone. I rue the day that I plucked you; the day you turned to stone. Day in and out I tend to you, to your petals of emotion. But open up – the bud does not. I’m wasting my devotion. You aren’t just a human being made of flesh and bone. Beautiful, yet unforgiving. You’re a rose that’s made of stone.