These words don't always come
Sometimes they don't even appear
But they are there
Buried in the subconscious
Color is easy to write about

'Roses are pretty
And violets are blue
The stars look lovely too'

But what is fading is ignored
Death is sad
And wilted roses turn grey
Soon enough they will be thrown away
Just like everything else
We will all be discarded
These words
These thoughts
Which are buried so deep
Will be taken to our grave