Roses

When roses wither, the blood runs cold,
Petals torn, their story untold.
A whispered breath, a final cry,
As silence devours the last goodbye.

Thorns twist deep, the soul is torn,
In silence, where the heart was born.
A flicker dies, a scream unheard,
The air grows thick with death’s own word.

All that remains is blood on roses,
A bitter trace where sorrow closes.
No warmth, no light, no pulse to find,
Just cold and silence left behind.