Unrequited Roses

The rose is overdone in verse for every lover claims its worth. The red one in my neighbor's yard now stirs forgotten memories. The rose is often overworked. I do recall a boy who daily offered roses to bring a smile to a winsome girl he did desire. Nor seldom I conferred a rose, a small investment in wistful hope. The rose was adoration's pledge affirming tenderness in passion. One more poem on the rose, perhaps a waste of precious time. The red rose at the neighbor's gate recalls a time I believed in love. That rose is pain, its petals blood. It speaks to me of lovers lost, no smiling eyes, no hopeful sigh from unrequited roses of memory.