No rose, dead or alive, could be an eyesore.

Reddish-pink and filled with life, open for new opportunities-
or failures.
Even those grey, dry, and cold,
inextricable from one another's old thrill
and despair, cling little dissatisfaction.

As they grow they gain beauty, history.
The rising generation creeps quietly, motionless, as they watch and they listen.
All signs of life vanish and the door remains closed.

Day by day, driven away with nothing left but their dignity; petals drop to the ground
like drops of rain on an early April morning.
The end is near yet their experience radiates delicacy.
Like an anonymous, invisible skeleton -
Dying, dead, died.
The rose has blossomed iron grey;
all that is left is grief.