There is a single small rose bush in the middle of an otherwise dead garden.

It is a white rose bush.

There is a girl standing by the small plant.

The white rose is turning red.

It is not some magical change that happened to the flower.

Nor has it got to do with another rose bush.

There is just blood on the rose bush.

The clouds are getting thicker in the sky.

The day is getting darker and darker.

The wind is picking up and is deafening.

The rain has started to fall.

There are buckets and buckets of water dropping from the sky.

There is nothing around but the rose bush and the girl.

Both are drenched by now, but it has only been a few minutes.

Though neither is brought down by the rain.

In fact, they relish in it.

The rain stops after a while.

The rose was cleaned of the blood while the rain was pouring.

Beside the rose lies the girl, unmoving.

A/N: This was a poem thing if you couldn't guess. I haven't been known by my friends as a great poet, so if the poem sucked a whole lot, then please don't hesitate to tell me. Review please!