Six roses.

The gate closes

Behind the factory owner.

The largest rose is sliced,

Left to wither, to shrivel, to die.

Its petals bruised and fractured,

Its dreams of justice shattered.

Five roses.

The gate closes

Behind the serial killer.

The flowers cower as he

Gazes, eyes tainted by insanity.

Another rose is slaughtered,

To finish its life within the cruel orchard.

As the youngest, merely a bud,

Is murdered by the demon, a cry on its tongue.

Three roses.

The gate closes

Behind the greed-crazed employer.

But one rose is drifting in the river,

Another out of the picture,

Twisted in agony from a painful death,

The icy grave to which it is condemned.

Two roses.

The gate closes

Behind the heartless conspirator.

His weapon prepared for this moment, he slashes.

His opportunity gone in a moment, he misses.

His pattern of victories broken at this moment, he fails.

A gust leaves his garden assaulted, assailed.

The wind whisks the saddened blossoms away,

Away to another, barely safer, place.

No roses.

The gate closes

Behind the hope destroyer.

As the man, the one, maybe the same,

Trudges out to save his pride in his own game.