Dead Roses

• Abbey Long, Grade 9
• Poetry
• 2021

Small, red and delicate
Bleeding through its colour

Around the grass, it suffocates
Waiting, wishing, wanting for spring instead of summer

It blooms and sprouts up tall
Singing, living the prettiest one of them all

A month into Spring, it's picked too soon,
in a vase by March, dead by June.

I mean, that's what I assume,

Seeing those roses on the table
I understand it's pretty, but also fatal

No one seems to care, or at least notice
I'm just sitting by the table,
watching the dead roses.