The roses were once so red and full of life.
Like the blood that falls to the floor after being provoked by a knife.
Their beauty like no other flower.
People would admire for many an hour.
But now they are gone. They’ve withered away.
And they won’t return for another day.
They bled all they could bleed,
They can no longer produce a seed,
They have become as dry as they could be.
They have died because of me.
