At first, the flower kept a gold to her stem,

but in the mirror, she donned a green instead.

Having lost her glow, she’d wilt into her bed,

yet paler have made puddles of lesser men.

He’d tend to thorns along her throat and leg

that limp became after days of praying; beg!

That she could draw tears from him again,

for he grew numb; and he yearned to tread

on soils yet unsullied by the rose. She said

“You loved me only for my health and went

as the winds do with my earthy scent; dread /

the day that I stand tall again, that you fled,

when I forgot what made me beautiful, I bent.”