my dying Rose

Helplessly i wait upon the hour,drawing closely;I,myself ponder tremendously
do my eyes decieve what once was a rose?
I speak to be heard once more and once more to be heard by that rose
but i cannot see that beauty of her face yet her eyes glances swiftly beyond her essence
Could it be,could it be that my essence is enough to guide thee
She is that dying rose shedding that of blackened petals;
Doomed by what the world to give thee
A single tear drop,which falls and taints the ground
and by that passing hour;she herself would wilt away.