The Ghost of a Rose

Like a rose, I bloom and attract,
opening up to invite you to see what I'm made for.
I beg you to come pay attention to my rich array of petals,
and to slow down, lean near, and just look into me for a moment.

The fragrance of my heart is familiar and welcoming.
It urges you to see past the thorns and to enjoy my presence.
I long to know that I bring joy and beauty to a day,
but I remain too low, and am no stranger to the feeling of being passed by.

I stretch up with every ounce of the being I have
just to be near to you.
Giving all that I have to be seen slowly wilts my luster.
And therein lies the tragedy: the act to live is an act towards death.

I remain ignored for some other attractive moment.
You will see me, but not notice that you've just encountered honesty,
and you'll carry on listening to the deflective thought that whispers,
"Next time. I'll stop and sit down with him next time."

Like a rose, I'm weak and I'm frail,
but I'm resolved to live a life dying for your brief attention.
In my vulnerability I beg you to remember the richness of my truth.
I stretch up so that you might bend down, and just live with me for a moment.