Aya Matrix
1 min readSep 28, 2023


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Shriveled like fine lined wrinkles of charted territory

Vibrant petals relaxing into an infused dull magenta, the colour of loves unfold

Bent at the neck from the weight of memories

Memories in the weight of gold than if it spanned for centuries

You see, she adores her roses pressed in books not showered with affection in gardens

She delights in roses smelling of nostalgia than of dystopic utopia

She craves roses that unravel a life rather than a rose alive yet unliving

She loves the feel of roses as they crunch in her marred hands than a fine touch to her tainted skin

You see, she was once a delicate rose in a cosmopolitan rose bush

Cultivated with thorns that did no good

Rooted for a false attempt at a better being

Withering at the weight of what could have been

A dead rose that found a home within the pages of a new chapter

A dead rose so much more vibrant and alive than ever before



Aya Matrix

Avid reader who writes about things that baffle and interest her | Poetry tends to slither out onto this page too