The little flowers smell like dust.
The musty little flowers burn your nose.
The soured musty smell causes the flood of memories to begin.
The love and family shared.
There are red flowers, orange ones, and brown.
My fingers gracefully caress them, reminiscing of the times I had spent staring at those flowers.
I was there that day.
The day the flowers turned brown.
They weren't meant to.
The screams still echo through my mind as they did that day.
The little flowers are brown from the drips.
The drips can be traced like little footprints.
The drips go along the flowers, and up the oak stairs, down the hall and through the door.
He tried to stop the drips, he caught them in his hands.
There were simply too many.
Drip after drip, until the sea of red cascaded through his fingers.
I watched as the drips escaped his grasp and marched along the floor like little ****** soldiers.
His blood was red.
His intestines were white.
Many years later, I look down at the little flowers and can only wonder,
Why do the red roses dry brown?