Roses are stunning newly cut. Crisp, crimson, fragrant and lovely. Romantic and sweet they are! But, Time will wilt and grow ugly.
Why does one receive a rose? A birth, a death, new love, sympathy? A reminder of someone, I would suppose. A reminder that crushes one’s dignity.
The death of the rose is the most beautiful. Finally, leaves become brittle, petals turn maroon. While sad, pray still, for it is natural. The symbol of pain will be gone soon.
Goodbye roses, begone with your silent tears! Until again, on another fateful day, When you are gifted again, to my fears, An old, mournful stain on the new rose’s bouquet.
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