Dead flowers in winter, frozen in time,
Trapped in a cage of cold, their beauty resigned,
As pure white snow descends in silent grandeur,
Draping their remains in a shroud, demure.
They lie still, as if destined to be,
Weak and frail, bruised by beauty’s decree,
Each flake's soft curve whispers of grace,
While numbness wraps tightly, a cold, cruel embrace.
Hasty steps pass, oblivious to their plight,
As the flowers count days, longing for light,
Dreaming of seeds buried deep in the frost,
Of warmth and revival, though cold must be lost.
For here, they endure, in silence they bide,
Witnessing the splendor, yet trapped inside,
In the heart of the winter, their colors will fade,
All beauty a memory, in cold shadows laid.
