Silent Shrieking....

He gave to her on that day, a single red rose.
'twas bold and bright and beautiful, the special one he chose.
'was for the one he loved, a girl, the very of his dreams.
He gave to her a second one, sitting under dim moonbeams.
The third was received by her on their walk by the misty lake.
The fourth was given by him and by the girl, indeed, she did take.
Ah, what happy times were these when love was beginning to blossom. Feelings raised, kisses exchanged, and neither being lonesome.
Sadly this reign of happiness could not continue on.
A tragedy occurring stopped this, he discovered at the dawn.
While running out into the street, too blinded by joy to see,
A car sped along, the driver drunk, blinded by alcohol was she.
He did not give her the rose that day. That terribly depressing day.
He gave it to no one. It sat there, withered, and then rotted slowly away.
He attended the funeral, and silently he did stand.
A single black rose, clutched in his constricted hand.
He returned home with heavy heart and eyes wet with tears.
Up in his room, his sanctuary, his own screams assaulted his ears.
The smell, the stench, of rotting rose
remained there forevermore.

-Claire E. Anderson