Roses, dead roses
Dead off the vine
Withered and wilted
These dead roses are mine
A gift from you
A crumbling bouquet
I love these dead roses
That reek of decay
I'll keep these dead roses
Til they crumble to dust
Keep them I shall
And cherish I must
They're wrinkled and black
And they're falling apart
But these dead roses
Have stolen my heart
YOU ARE READING
A Crumbling Bouquet
PoetryThey were dead, but I don't care because they are from you.
