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Wilted

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By Jessica A., Greenfield, MA

   I have a dozen red roses in my room

And they are starting to stink.

In a vase, dead and stale,

The water foams brownish green

With a little mold floating.

The stench is swampy

The aura, stagnant, but

I've been too lazy to throw them out.

So they sit there,

Reminding me that he is leaving,

And I realize why I keep them.

It's all there is left of what I thought we were.

No full blooms, no burning red passion.

No bright color to lift the sadness,

No beautiful scent to yearn for.

Just some watery memories, with

A little mold floating.






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