Before me sit the roses,
Withered. Dead. And dry.
A reminder of my emptiness,
A final, sad goodbye.
One were red, now purple,
Unhealthy, greyish leaves,
Yelling in my silent head,
Granting me no reprieves.
Water turned a cloudy hue,
Thorns still so sharp they'd cut,
One day I may just throw them out,
For now, though, there's a 'but'.
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