The roses died so long ago,
I forgot the small of their perfume.

Their radiant glow no longer show,
within these realms of blackened roses.
A thorny bed for their petaled little heads,
each one with a headstone of their own.

Never overgrown,
time keeps them prim and proper.
Yet if you come a little closer you’ll see for yourself,
these pretty little posers are nothing but pansies.
Made of cloth, silk, and thread
these flowers made no bed
for how can they,
their dead.