I look at the roses in the vase
I stare at them dieing and wasting away
Red, White Yellow and black.
Red they say mean passion
white love
yellow respect
Black for death
but what of pain?
What rose this there for loneliness
what about the sadness that I feel
are there no flowers for that
nothing for the loss I feel
but alas there is
they do not bloom but they are part of the symbols of love
thorns ripe my flesh as I try to squeeze the life from these facets of love
the blood seeps from the clenched fists
I watch as I drop the roses to the floor
droplets of blood decorating the petals
they now are perfect in my pain