The Rose

The Rose The Rose by Krystal Sedlak I look in the rose and see its tiny petals. They fall to the ground go for care tiny ashes of the love that was burned when I refused to springtime up our love. The rose grows with apathy, not because it grows, but because it is slowly moulder extraneous like the flesh on a suddenly corpse. The ashen porcelain vase shatters due to the pressure of tears that have self-possessed in it. An avalanche has collapsed on top. The rose freezes and ceases to live.

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