STALE ROSES

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Viable seeds, and can be squashed out of decaying fruits:
This is my faith, aloaf and stoic.
If you pluck them now they will wilt by noon.
So deep the stalks in some morphine, it will keep them fresh for a while.
But pour away any traces of dignity, as well as everything that will be gone soon.

In fresh yellow roses lives a hopeful gesture; wishing you quick recovery.
Yet stale ones will be blown across the bald gravestone.
Fresh red roses when love is young and full of dew, and the stale ones in a bin, perhaps a reminder of the ache that love reincarnates to.

Vibrancy, fine birds scattered across the sky.
Chirps, stillness and peace prevail.
But the vacant room and the noise of regret will replace
All that was taken for granted.

If you pluck them now they will wilt by noon.
As well as everything that will be gone soon.
As sweet scent and radiance turns to gloom
For you are beauty consumed by time.
And time punishes you, this, I can see in your sunken eyes.

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