The Forgotten

Each petal has fallen,
Once so soft,
And so pure,
And they rest now, wilted,
Upon my tears, and white floor.

The crimson has been eaten,
By crisp, blackened time,
As decay rims the edges,
Assaulting beauty,
With grime.

They sat, and they sat,
Accompanying my loneliness,
12 of them reasons,
That I sit in my emptiness.

They were dropped here,
As a gift of remembrance,
Yet no one visits,
So their beauty bears no resemblance,
To the care,
That they are supposed to represent,
And the love,
That should be had.

So as I sit,
And I die,
I watch the roses,
Pressed against sky,
Slowly fade away,
Like myself,
Forgotten,
Until my alone, dying day.

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