From deep within the cacophony of roads
There stood the barest hint of a rose

Not quite alive, but not quite dead
And too small to turn a head
But still it stayed
And kept on living
Until one day, it started giving.

It laid its petals on the floor
And watched as children stopped to adore
The pieces of itself if gave
To give them joy in one small way.

The rose continued on like this
For days, for weeks, for a dozen years
It became something commonplace
Something expected, this small face
Until one day, the petals wilted
 And in the breeze, the frail head tilted.

The children ridiculed the rose
For innocence they had outgrown
But they had other important matters
To even think of helping the shattered
And so time passed and the rose grew frail
Until it endured its final gale

The rose fell silently to the floor
With an echoing thump, it was no more
The giver breathed its final sigh
And waved a small, silent goodbye

And so died the memory of this rose
From deep within the cacophony of roads