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Rose, how your petals have fallen, wilted away with your legs displayed in angles representative of only rag dolls,
This is your deceased garden, crippled by chilling winds and early winter snowfalls, where fears have reached high from deep within the belly of the earth, with winding segmented, earthwormen tendrils, tearing the world of memories that your death hath produced, and towards your body, where there was strength, once.
Loud voice, stubborn heart! Destroyed the sanctuary that was mine you have, the security for my heart and body alone to love and cherish taken by your somber expressions of betrayal.
Guilty party! Stand now in your detailed mask of false life, express sorrow to this one of mine that you have broken with your, illness.

Rose, you have abandoned those who have loved you. With your cold corpse and open eyes, I swear by my visions! I take them and hold them high within my cupped hands to the sky, attesting and defending them to those who disbelieve in the idea that I can still see your smile flashing beneath my eyelids!
'Tis only a dream! My heart only toys with my mind, forcing this terribly active imagination that is within its possession to produce such strange poisons that alter this reality that has already been broken and cracked by your apparent absence. For, in this imaginative state, you are but still up the flight of stairs within our home, curled upon your mattress in a sweet mockery of sleep.
However though, I do understand, that you be in no such place, however though, I do comprehend, that the only flight of stairs that must be ascended to reach your position, are unreachable by mortal fingers.

Rose, how you have murdered me! Slain my heart in the purity of a bleached bathroom washing bin, allowed it to bleed away its color and passion. Vices of your passing are wrapping throughout it, terrible heart worms cracking the bitter flesh of our memories together.
Tears, you have indeed abandoned them upon my cheeks.
Yes, you left me, my dearest flower, with the arguments that are acclaimed to our names still fresh on my shivering lips, attempting to fly out like razor blades with my tongue as the catapult. My enemy! This was your fate, your destination upon the railways of life, for you, you were my very mother. If not by blood then indeed, by all other senses of the word.

Rose, I praise your death!
For with you gone I can breathe. Heavy stones have found no hope within these pockets, the pure wings upon my oh-so-young spine are reaching tot he sky to soar above the clouds, where you may be residing.
I am meant to show you how well I have blossomed without your tilling, nurturing fingernails.
Yet, there be no pleasant breeze beneath my wings, no motivation without your stories of the wide world that you had so brilliantly traveled with diamonds glittering from your jet trails.
Now, do inform me, how am I meant to survive, without such guiding pathways, without such road signs on railways placed by your wise heart in order to save me from the painful 'necessaries' of life, that have yet to pass.

Rose, be gone from me!
Your shadow cold and heavy upon my back, breaking bones and wishes, killing dreams and ambitions, I feel a refusal to cry any longer at my acceptance that although you may be within my heart for an eternity, I am, quite definitely, alone/.

Rose, the skies have dulled with the sadness that hath leaked from my dripping salivary glands. I could suppose that a thing such as this is regular, a normal occurrence when a writer's pain has reached its final point of expression.
However, there are still terribly insistent words creeping upon my tonsils, I will let them rot, with plans to leave you with a final thought as this page settles itself upon your freshly flowered grave.
I have heard though, in some plays and stories, that should your name, should a Rose, be detailed with any other expression than itself, would still smell as sweetly.
Would such a reputation hold true, I wonder, if your name was death?