Wilting Rose Blooming

Mine? Oh, no. It cannot be.
What would I do?
What would I give?
Just to be, to hold, to see.
Anything.
No protection is strong enough
For the heart,
Against the thorns, so beautiful,
Yet so painful.
Mine? Not to be. Already is.
Or so they say.
Mortal, yet eternally in existance.
Soft, faint, blush, petals of the rose
Blood red, the pain of an eternity;
Or so it seems.
Echoes of beauty down the hallways of time.
To live, to leave, to love,
All rests on one word.
In arms of warmth, boughs of tree,
Slumbers, rose-scented, for ever more.