She is a shining rose,
beautifully blossoming.
With pearly, red petals
Opening with the slight touch
of the sun’s warm, golden rays.

Its sweet scent wafts through the air,
attracting buzzing bees.
The crimson color
contrasts the emerald leaves,
and dirt-colored thorns:
designed to keep devils at bay.

Untouched and still,
the rose goes about change.
Untouched and still,
but affected by its surroundings.

Untouched and still
the rose begins to perish --
The harms and dangers
inflicted upon the naive flower
intangible, unseen, silent.

Now, it withers and droops,
Petal by petal,
the flower becomes bare
in the isolation.

Untouched and still
it yellows, like the pages
of a papery, aging book,
falling apart in your fingers.

Untouched and still
it  shrinks -- in width and in height,
stripped to a straggly twig.

Not once physically touched,
But influenced by the elements,
the occurrences swirling around her.

The chilled, biting wind
takes the last of her petals
whipping the shrivelled pieces
far, far away.

Everything seems to have fallen,
deep down into the depths,
It is gone, she is gone.