"gather ye rosebuds while ye may"

The rosebud hangs from broken stem
its color deep as bloodred gem,
withered, crumbled, petals dry
alone beneath a dreary sky.
Trapped within the hard stone walls,
as yet another petal falls
her leaves yearn for a touch of sun
but hope is gone, her days are done.
No longer do they tend to her
and now the Vine, the Weeds, and Burr,
unstoppable, roam far and free.
Yet naught can be done, for none do see
her many struggles, pains and woes.
She's fallen at last into Death's throes.
For even with roots so strong and sound
she could not last on frozen ground.
And though she had been the greatest of seeds
the world had ignored the poor rose's needs,
simple things: the water of love
and recognition from sunlight above.
Now she is conquered, the battle is lost,
now comes the time of the cold winter frost.
Hard and bitter, those red rosebud's tears
are all that remain of ten long years
of valiant effort to simply survive
but nothing was left to keep her alive.