Death of a Rose

The winds of time, relentless and bold, 
Swept through , icy and cold. 
The rose once vibrant began to fade,
 Its colors now ghosts in the evening shade.
The rose was but a ghost once filled with life.
Beneath the crimson splendor 
and fragrance so sweet, 
The thorns tell a story of deceit. 
In the stillness of dark it softly sighs
Though its time was brief 
 in death it's essence endures
For every rose that graces time 
Leaves behind a silent rhyme.

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