A Dozen Roses

The wilted roses sat regally in the vase.
Their beauty never more apparent than their now decay.
The petals fall listlessly onto the carpet.
She never notices the thorns have no points.
Is it pride or vanity that rules the rose?
She whispers it is benign beauty that sins.
Dying slowly with no remorse.
Perfumed fragments tantalize the passers-by.
A dozen roses on the naked mantle.
A tear drops and my roses cry.

by A.J. McKinley

Other poems of MCKINLEY (60)

Comments (9)

idk y but i have tears in my eyes that is a precious poem :)
The poignancy of your verse is truly haunting in the centre of the context about the rose that is dying. A parallel is met with the human existence in this very beautiful poem that cries aloud in its temerity. Thanks, Arya
I love this poem. Great. Thank you.
A.J. what an enchanting little piece. I wonder why roses always seem to be a poets favourite flower. I've used it many times myself. The delicate way you describe the withering rose is very visual and sad. The poems is beautiful. Thank you for sharing it.10/10 from me. David
Amazing imagery and written with a delicate style so characteristic of the roses in question. Beautifully done! Brian
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