The roses are dead,
they had barely turned red,
in the morning
I rose to them withered.

The sun made no sound
as it stood from the ground
to illuminate
the absence of life.

Oh, it stung like a thorn
to see this at dawn;
my heart shrivelled up
like those petals.

“They look red to me?”-
the others can’t see
those dead roses
that sit on our table.

“It’s all in your mind,
the roses are fine;
so are you,
if you give yourself time.”