Rough texture.
Black as if bruised.

Once a nice gesture.
But now I'm amused.

Their heads hang low.
Cradled in wilting baby's breath.

Lack of luster, lack of glow.
While welcoming it's certain death.

Take a look at my roses.
Do you see the point of their articulate poses?

Scents that kiss noses?
not my dead roses.

What is one rose the equivalent of?
one love?

A dozen love doses?
not my dead roses.

The reason I wrote this?
My twelve dead roses.

- Shae