| DYING ROSES |
| by Scheherazade |
| You brought me roses yesterday morn', picked from the vine outside your room; you always took care to break off every pricking thorn, and to choose the one with the most precious bloom. And in the vase on my nightstand, the dark red rose still lives. It's surviving you in defiance, and awakening sorrow in the warmth it gives. The hand that plucked it from its life will never touch another rose. and your absence gives me so much strife-- far beyond what the mere flower knows. If I had known it on that yesterday, that you knew that it would be our last, I could have somehow made you stay, and held you close and fast. You sacrificed the greatest treasure, thinking it worth dirt or less. In denial that, beyond any measure, it was the gift most priceless. And now your rose has faded-- and dies, drooping in its cup. I can't believe that this is what you were fated, or that your time was up. |
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