The Rose

The Rose The Rose by Krystal Sedlak I look in the rose and see its tiny petals. They fall to the ground take place care tiny ashes of the love that was burned when I refused to unfold up our love. The rose grows with apathy, not because it grows, but because it is slowly bunk extraneous like the flesh on a pulseless corpse. The ashen porcelain vase shatters due to the pressure of tears that have sedate in it. An avalanche has collapsed on top. The rose freezes and ceases to live.

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