7 November 2012
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'.
Dead Roses. • Opuss № I