Small white box, filled with dead roses.
Burnt red in color, some rusted white.
Stale fragrance like old perfume.
Comforting ribbon and babies breath.
Delicate but dry, crumbling slightly.
Barely holding on to what they once were.
They sit dormant, waiting, hoping.
But they will never be in full bloom again.
Never to be displayed in a vase,
To be cherished for their beauty,
or sweet and alluring scent.
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