In a dimly lit old art room
Laid a stem of rose.
It's petals red, still freshly bloomed
Stayed ever still as if they'd froze.
It's captor was an artist boy
With a palette where his paints had dried.
He had plucked this beauty with such joy,
Knowing well that it would die.
In name of art he painted well,
Preserving time in canvas oil.
With prideful red, he dared not dwell
For flowers Wilt away from soil.
In hours done a still life print
Of a beauteous rose with scarlet tints.
Though on the table laid deceased
Was a wilted flower it's life ceased.
©emily_cjw
E