Roses

It pulses through my veins.
The red of the roses washing off into my blood.
The roses become colourless.
Still existing, but their beauty lost as the petals fall off,
one by one.
Its appeal has gone. Remembered with fondness but now looked at distastefully as it rots.
The soft, red petals now crisp and colourless.
“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”. Maybe, but what when the rose dies?

Discarded. A distant memory of something that once was beautiful.