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Wilted MAG
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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