A Dozen Roses
The wilted roses sat regally in the vase.
by A.J. McKinley
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.