Garden of Roses

There's a garden of roses
outside of my room
and the roses do grow
while new flowers bloom.
I keep planting more,
the flowerbed grows
with every new
and perfect rose.
But the problem is,
with perfection that is,
that roses will wilt
against every wish.
Into time's arms
the roses will fall;
eventually, each of them,
one and all.
But such is the grandness
of precious life:
it's filled with ups
and downs and strife.
It's the way that it is,
the way that life goes
for every single
perfect rose.
So forever, I
will plant one more;
an eternal garden
at my door,
and maybe time
will grant just one
that never wilts,
or until I'm done
it will survive,
a perfect rose
in sync with my
own crooked nose.
I don't need perfect,
just perfection
to echo me,
be my reflection.
I will wait
until it grows
amongst my flowers:
my perfect rose.