Beauty of the Dusty Rose

Upon the iron table,
Within the dusty room,
There lay a rose so feeble,
She merely awaited her doom.

No sunlight broke the darkness,
No windows offered air,
The room itself, did reek of death,
Of sorrow and despair.
The floor would creak, had it the chance,
But no one dare comes near;
For what purpose would one sneak,
Beneath the devil's lair?

The rose had surely suffered,
Under the darkness and the dust,
The love that she once ushered
Was only beautiful lust.

And so she sat in waiting,
Bleeding out her heart,
Her love had turned to hating,
And her beauty fell apart.

Locked within her darkness,
She awaited her true light,
Though no one's come to save her,
She's riddled with delight.
For though she lays, alone and cold,
Beneath the devil's lair,
She feels at ease, and even pleased,
For her demons don't know she's there.