The roses are dying again,

As this seems most normal now.

Drooping heads, a slow decay,

Upon each fragile, fading bough.

But they are the flower of love,

A velvet touch, a crimson stain,

The flower of beauty, brief and bright,

A pleasure mixed with poignant pain.

And even the flower of the lost,

The ones who slipped beyond our hold,

The departed souls, in memory kept,

In stories often to be told.

Shall they be free, as they are free?

The petals scattered on the breeze,

Like whispered names of those who left,

Lost in the rustling of the trees.

The ones who had to leave so soon,

The ones who will never return,

The ones who were held close to heart,

For whom our silent sorrows burn.

Death is not the only way,

I’ve had those precious ones depart.

A slow receding, silent drift,

A breaking bond, a fractured heart.

There have been many who just left,

Alone in silence, stark and cold,

Leaving me feeling so alone,

A story often to be told.

Never been so alone.

The roses will always live again,

A promise whispered on the air,

But they will always die again,

A cycle of beauty and despair.

I’ll have my rose garden blooming bright,

Where roses of mine have stayed,

Since the beginning of our time,

Our promises that we both made.

The endless dances in the sun,

Unspoken languages we knew,

Of mutual beauty, love, and care,

Forever faithful, strong, and true.

How these roses are in many colors,

A vibrant tapestry unfurled,

Each hue a story, softly told,

To me, they are my world.

These roses have colors that speak,

Of joy and hope, and quiet grace,

Of friendship, loyalty, and dreams,

Reflected in each petal's face.

As the meanings can vary though some will disagree,

A crimson passion, burning bold,

A gentle pink of sweet delight,

A secret story to unfold.

I cannot care for what they say,

What others think of colors’ claim.

W

hat I feel their color is,

Is what they are to me, its all the same.