Still Life
The rose petals fall dead to the floor,
Separating from a dead stem.
The vase, once full of life and colour,
Now is dry and barren and dusty.
The thorns, once green and juicy,
Are now hardened evil talons,
Waiting behind the dirty glass,
To attack anything soft and supple.
The last petal falls dead to the floor,
Its colour darkened and dried.
Sitting still in the dust,
Floral blood on the wooden boards.
The house is still.
The petals are still.
Life is still. Is gone.
The rose petals fall dead to the floor,
Separating from a dead stem.
The vase, once full of life and colour,
Now is dry and barren and dusty.
The thorns, once green and juicy,
Are now hardened evil talons,
Waiting behind the dirty glass,
To attack anything soft and supple.
The last petal falls dead to the floor,
Its colour darkened and dried.
Sitting still in the dust,
Floral blood on the wooden boards.
The house is still.
The petals are still.
Life is still. Is gone.
By J. Barrett
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