Wilted

A rose,
a whisper in the folds of time
so fragile in its
instantaneous existence


a picture of perfection.
No flaws mar the the crimson petals.
But the wind blows
            dead leaves in circles.
The once-brilliant petals
shrivel up 
and turn grey
and die.


The cold wind rattles trees
and bones
and death comes,
leaving the rose wilted.


Fragile beauty does not last.


It fades 
and disappears
and shh
shh
shh.....