Tales of Resilience: Poetic Chronicles of a Wounded Heart

Dead Roses

I still laugh at it, the dead roses.
Seven, tied with thirty-six black threads;
Yes, I counted them all.
A delicate dance of remembrance;
I recall telling you how I cherish dead roses,
For while fresh ones wither,
These, in their eternal state, live forever.
I love how you remember every nuance of me,
Turning even the passage of time
Into a bouquet of memories.
The little black bow still holds
Dead Roses you plucked for me.
You plucked roses with missing petals,
Taking on subtle hues of muted browns and faded reds;
Ones with a broken stem,
Though no longer sturdy,
Maintains a quiet elegance in its fragility;
You plucked roses immortal.

-Srishty