We Speak in Different Voices

My speech is slurred, but my heart is quiet.  Too quiet.  Almost gone.  It feels like it's time to give up.  I can feel the fuel rising again.  I will not allow it, yet I desire to embrace it to its full penetrating potential.  The lack of it all is flustering.  I can almost taste the end with my tongue.  The rose is slowly welcoming its own dejection, and the gardener seems to call for it.  It begs.  It groans for release.  Though the fire may lie in expectation, the rose embodies its thoughts into trails of smoke.  The rain will only rust.  The light will only blind.  A fictional life's view is most definite.  But no one will notice the lack of one single rose taken out of the gardener's bed.