dead roses: the other side

A Poem by tee

Dead roses in the middle of an empty, dark room

It looks like a murder scene, white petals spattering the ground like pool of moonlight

Dried up stems like bones, sticking up at uneven angles, snapped in pieces

The smell of roses is thick in the air still, as if the flowers had made one last desperate call to survive, trying to entice anyone close to come save them

But the roses are dead now, broken and forgotten, in the shadows all alone

Did someone forget to water them, help them grow? Did someone forget to care?

Or was this an act of violence? Did someone find the roses and decide to destroy them for everyone else?

Or maybe this was merely self destruction. Did the roses have someone who cared for them, loved them, and they still decided that to die alone was better than to live with another?

Beautiful red roses out by the boat, swaying in the sea breeze as they watch the sun rising, red roses vibrant and alive because of the newness of it all: not there.

Roses blood red and shining albeit a little jagged around the edges as they lay alone in the middle of a club, frayed because of a set of keys hanging off one of the stems: not there, but something has happened.

The roses are pale now, in the corner of a small bedroom, the stems have been crushed but they're still hanging on, so unlike the beautiful red roses that they used to be, but still fixable - somehow, even with the shadows now caressing those petals softly.

And finally those pale roses in another room now, almost in the process of being brought back to life, but the shadows that used to caress now choke the life out of them - white ruses that used to be red that haven't been watered in a long time with stems that are starting to break, one rose has already fallen to the ground and another is on the way, but there's one rose left standing, holding on as best as it can, but with the shadows squeezing tighter around its already frail lifeline I know that there's not much time left.

Dead roses in the middle of a dark room, the shadows now gone - but I can see how they're needed now, how the shadows had become a lifeline that used to be so vibrant, so full

Dead roses, crushed and destroyed, the wind from the sea making the petals flutter slightly - a joke in comparison to what it once was, being stepped on for the chance of a perfect photo

But then something stirs and determination sets in as the last rose left pulls the shadows that killed it tighter, midnight patching back together the broken stems and torn petals

Dead white roses become black ones, broken stems become amateur patchwork, and even though the fragile roses are barely holding on, about ready to break at another gust of wind, they squeeze the shadows so tight that there's a chance of survival

Dead roses destroyed, covered in shadows that hold them together, petals as black as the night that hides the nightmares, waiting for someone to love them as they are

In the same way that I do.