Sometimes I feel like a rose.
I am born as a meek bud.
My petals begin to spread.
I feel as fresh as a glassy stream,
trickling its way down.
Just as I have reached my most
exquisite beauty,
winter comes,
I start to wilt.
Slowly my petals begin to fall.
Now I am only a stem,
a stem of woe,
Awaiting my new diguise.
 
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