Decom-Posuer

She's a painting, out of focus.
With the good sense, of attention
She's authentic.
She's a model, of disaster
With the heart of, revolution
She's so innocent, but guilty to plead
Everybody wants to save her.
From herself, they really want to save themselves
She's got the grace, of a tourist
With the charm of, demolition
She's a poem, without meter or rhyme
A random design, of a flower.
Like a rose, no one really knows
She's a master, he's disserving.
Restoration or contemption
Time will tell us, is she a live bone?
Or a decom-poser?
She is Rose, no one really knows.