Her hands are almost empty.
Her bouquet is not as bountiful
as it once was.
She has begun to hand out
her roses, as if they were mere daisies.
All that is left, are the throes
lasting impressions
upon her milk skin.
Time ago, she would have never allowed
for so many roses to be missing.
She craves the tender hands
whom watered her
and allowed blossoming
to appear in front of their eyes.
Before she held her ground,
roots as strong as the
ancient willow tree.
This time, she allowed
the poison of her own fears
to destroy the web she carefully constructed.
For the game she wanted to keep
was not going to get caught
in the same beauties.
Tears slide down her cheek
past her rosy lips,
the death of such a beautiful soul.
For maybe her own eyes
are the pair that
are able to properly
worship the fallen petals.