My garden was once beautiful, filled with the most loveliest of colours. Red for the roses, of witch i particularly loved. Yet as the years go by, my rose bush has wilted; the reminance of nothing but thorns has given me inclination to replant some where else - in a better field, with stronger soil. Yet still i sit, holding on to this old friend, pretending what i loved still exists deep within. Dew drops on my leafy cheeks fall like drizzle rain on a sad sunday afternoon. If only i could learn to let go.