Image poetry R.N

The dormant rose, with petals closed.
It stands up high, in truth it cries.
Cries out for help, it waves and yelps.
it could do more, when bloom comes forth.
but just for now, it wears a frown.
Because the bees, it cannot see.
will never help, it bloom with health.
It waits till' it blooms, like a bird till it flies.
to look at the moon, on evry' lone night.
the lonely, barren, land, in which it lives.
is holding it away from keeping what it gives.
The thing it has to give, is no easy thing to lose.
without this it can't live, so there's no point being blue.
the rose will start to wither, and there's nothing it can do.
and now it all dried up, with the life and energy too.