Roses
were the flowers that grew and budded
into great numbers
in the garden of my heart.
Left there,
by the mere thought and memory
of you:
• Your sweet smile
• Your eyes that shine
• And your beautiful mind

But like delicate flowers,
at the mercy of season's change.

Yours was no exception.

Withering
at the cold reality of your absence.
The garden shriveled up, as the warm embrace of your voice
suddenly vanished.

And I was left here,
in a bed
of rotting leaves.
My nose cringing at the stench,
dead dreams leave.