After hours of picking flowers
with bloodied hands,
only two roses remained, now resting
bedside in a jar full of water.
One faded pink, one white,
dying in the water.
They look nice sitting there,
in the water,
which holds tight as long as possible.
But soon water will become trivial
and their beauty
will only return
once they are fully deceased,
crumbling and shivered on the mantle,
pistils frozen outward.