She drifted in and out of view
passing from gossamer to stone,
floating and then, sinking down low,
singing the words you wrote for her,
the sound now a sick cacophony
mocking your emotions,
stabbing at your heart.
Holding the now faded rose
that you had pinned in her hair,
but truly, a thorn in her side
had been your gift to her,
the beautiful bloom
was invisible to those eyes,
and the wilting leaves
cried for a love that had died.