There are no roses in this garden blooming,
they've withered and died on their stalks;
like the flickers of love that we had,
when we started stopping our walks.

When the kisses gave up their warmth,
when the touches soon became brief;
and embraces were often forgotten,
in various stages of grief.

There are no flowers in this garden growing,
just the tangled masses of weeds;
that perished with our troubles,
that ceased, just like our needs.

When the silence became the norm.
when our eyes looked the other way;
and the nights became too long,
for anything good to stay.

There are no roses in this garden blooming,
only a barren plot;
adrift in memories,
of bitter unanswered thought.