When I was young and I was real I grew roses in my English garden.

When I was young and I could feel I smelt heaven in the garden.

Now my petals are withered and dried, faded and inverted hanging from heavens rafter.

I've existed long past the time for briar walls to become happy ever after.

I cannot grow but I do not die and only a pale scent hangs in my pot pourri petals.

I love not the sun and frost holds no chill; snow does not melt when on me it settles.

It's not my own self but your pure sweet smell that keeps me suspended an inch above hell.

You are the blight that shows me too well that I've always been ailing but never could tell.

Brittle remembrance has superseded the softness of my budding life.

And all I am is the vague recollection of hope and daily strife.

I want to be more but I awake each night the same.

All that remains is an attitude and a name.

I want to be more than the thorn spiking your side,

I need to be more than a dark place to hide.

Give me your love or at least say you'll cease

- dangling this hope – let me rest in peace.