Dark Rose

My rose should be a pretty thing,  
Should be a tender, scarlet red.  
But it’s a dark and misty gray;  
Shines with tears instead.  
   
It was once a playful pink,  
Glowing with the light of day.  
It bloomed in happy innocence,  
Perfect in every way.  
   
But the cruel storms rolled in,  
Angry clouds covered the sky,  
Rained harsh hailstones on my rose;  
It suffered with a sigh.  
   
And when the sullen sunlight  
Finally leaked through the clouds,  
It found my rose bruised and battered,  
Covered with a misty shroud.  
   
My rose is no longer perfect,  
And beautiful in every way.  
It no longer glows and shines,  
Sparkling with the light of day.  
   
Instead, it lies upon the ground,  
Shrouded in darkness and in pain.  
Here it’s waiting for the light  
To free it from its chains.