the rose,
the rose was alive
and it inhaled every
breath
of fresh air,
and expelled all the toxins
from its quiet body
its color was rich
and deep,
its fragile outer skin
like velvet
and reminded her of
happy things.
and it reminded her of her,
but this was many months ago.
and now,
they went back to where
the rose
used to live,
and they went there to bury her.
her little boy noticed the rose
it was wilted,
dead,
singed by the
cold frost.
it was a gray color
only one petal
carried a wisp
of its previous crimson.
it made the boy cry.
he wailed and called out,
for his mum
for his mother.
but she was like the rose,
dead,
wilted,
colorless,
still,
all gone,
all dead.
and then the boy
crumpled to the ground.
and he had
the rose
curled into his palm.
whimpering.
