Fields and farms of roses, each destined to be plucked or cut from its stem.
A rainbow under the covers of incandescence, a myriad of colours to suit a holiday.
Happy Valentines doesn't mean I love you  in the same way it used to, decades ago.
Flowers become a facade of emotions that don't seem to prosper from wandering minds.
I planted some rose seeds in a broken ***, a decrepit chrysalis that houses a blossom and bloom. The roses grew to an enchanting sight and I am disillusioned by the fact that the only options left are to pluck it or cut it. So I choose neither and I leave the roses to wilt in a decrepit cacophonous cemetery.