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The roses have shrivelled
For they were let to ornament
A sad and dusty room,
At mercy of time,
Cut away from their roots.
Once red as passion
And soft as a dream,
Their petals are now desiccate,
Somber in the arms of Death.
I find beauty in their misery.
I mourn their loneliness.
If I were to gently touch them
I fear they would be no more
Than a scroll of dust in a breath.
Maybe, however, this peaceful end
Is their only way out.
From the crude thirst of life
To a quiet, restful darkness