Roses

When roses wilt,
you think they are bowing,
to you,
because you're so wrapped up in yourself.
You trample the roses,
in your quest,
for such tainted desires,
twisted strength and power,
not caring that you've brought the roses to death,
because,
it isn't hurting you.

You pluck the petals off the rose,
watch them fall,
watch them suffer,
watch them die because of your actions,
but you have no remorse,
for what you did to the roses,
after all,
they're just roses to you.

You refuse to take responsibility,
for the destruction that you've caused,
the chaos that you've provoked,
among the roses,
that you thought loved you,
but in reality,
just loved hating you.

And though their leaves may fall in defeat,
their stems snapped by your forceful grasp,
their revenge is sweet,
for their thorns will greet,
you,
piercing through your selfish feet,
as you try to walk your talk,
hide your actions,
along your own paved path of royalty.