Chant of the Withering Rose

In the garden's silent core,
Where the withering roses mourn,
The petals fall, one by one,
Like teardrops from the sun.

Each thorn a memory sharp,
Etched upon the heart's bark,
Whispering tales of yore,
Of love and loss, evermore.

The fragrance of days gone by,
Hangs heavy beneath the sky,
A bittersweet symphony,
Of what was, and will never be.

Yet in this solemn decay,
The spirit finds its way,
To honor what once bloomed,
In the heart's eternal room.