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
