In this room where silk flowers grow only more pale, wasting

away, get away, fading away. There is but one rose that I care for;

I feed it, nourish it, prune it, even love it, and in return it grows:

changes, evolves, twists, and turns, creates art out of its very form.

Its soft petals emcompass my body; its fragrance tickling my nose,

and ever so gently whispering my name, calling me near, with its gentle breeze.

Let the silk flowers waste away, I will forever be a slave to the natural rose.