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.