Dave Bonta's "Cut rose" gives a cut flower a voice, or at least lets the speaker hear one in it. The opening lines notice a "troubled quiet" inside the rose, as if its calm hides something close to distress. Then the petals become "held-up hands" that cry out, asking "what shall we do." The image is both lovely and unsettling: a flower reaching upward, helpless, with nothing left to do.
The final couplet shifts into first person, and the rose seems to speak for itself. "I have given my life for nothing" is a blunt, bitter line. The rose has been cut, and its beauty ends up "flung down on a bed," perhaps as a casual gesture, perhaps something more careless. Judging by the imagery, the poem may also be about any life spent giving and then discarded.
The mood is hushed, sad, and a little accusing. Short lines and stillness make the final complaint feel even sharper.