I caught a whiff of the final rose
when following a trail of wilted petals,
on a search for a place to heal
the damage caused by running
through thorns.
I found you behind emerald vines
clinging to the sills of open windows,
tending neglected flowers,
in a garden with little hope
of regrowth.
And I knew that this
was the beginning of forever
for a broken honeybee.
Tag: rose
Wilted
They stripped my thorns,
and cut my stems,
leaving me
nothing more
than wilted rose petals.
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Half-Dead Beauty
Death is not beautiful
when you’re actually dead
But barely living
in half-dead trees,
half-dried roses,
and deathly thin models
it’s often alluring.
How ironic that
fallen leaves,
broken thorns,
and ruined bodies
are considered beauty
but death is only pretty
if you’re barely living.
Marysa Writes 