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...
So heated, the blood runs thick,
A burning shame, a bitter trick.
Constantly cheated, cards laid bare,
A losing hand, beyond compare.
But it is all okay, I tell myself,
Despite the sting, upon the shelf
Of memories, a growing pile,
Of promises, and empty smile.
Feel beated, bruised and worn,
Another battle, barely born.
Seems it’s always repeated, this fall,
Against a brick, a...