A rose is a beautiful thing
But solitary
Standing elegantly, calmly in the night.
Every night
The rose contented himself to gaze upon the moon
Waiting to be picked the following morning to show off its beauty.
Every early morning fog would roll in
And the rose would lose sight of the moon but be content upon its sight.
But upon this morn, it was not fog, but smoke
And the rose wilted and died,
never to see the moon again.