In the garden where memories lie,
Amidst the thorns that pierce the sky,
A wilted rose begins its dance,
In solemn, gentle, mournful trance.

The petals, once a crimson hue,
Now whisper tales of morning dew,
Once kissed by light, now shadow’s kin,
In silent winds that whisper sin.

Underneath the moon’s soft glow,
Time weaves patterns, ebb and flow,
The rose sways softly, lost in thought,
In a dance that sorrow wrought.

A final bow, the petals fall,
Echoes of a silent call,
The garden weeps for what it knows,
The dance of the wilted rose.