Where Roses Go To Die

I'm on my knees, crouching at the site
The browned vines hang between my fingers,
Pouring to the ground - no longer reaching,
For it takes life to be able to yet reach.

Oh, but here are the petals, so dried up...
When was the last time they saw the sun?
The last time they were loved, just like
What the symbolically once represented.

Why did you let the roses die?
You killed beauty, murdered a life.
Or is this just the place
Where love is meant to die?

Aren't roses a common flower
To lie in the hands of the deceased?
Is that why this beauty's final rest
Was here, in this place, as well?

Is this were roses are meant to die?
Where love is a sharp object,
Like these dead vines shriveled, falling?
Is that why you did it?

Why did you kill the love?
Was it because you were afraid?
Afraid that it would come back to stab you,
And you figured that if the vines couldn't reach
You would never feel the pain...

This is where roses are meant to die.
Where vines are no longer deadly sharp.
A place where the representation love
Was killed before it could even prove
Whether or not it's harmful at all ~