My withering rose heart reeks,
the heartbeats prick me like thorns.
Poets like me,
personify the reds, pinks, whites
and add life to a morbid demise.
I raise my muse to a pedestal,
glorify fireflies & belittle the sky.
I am becoming like every flower:
fragrant & splendid,
carefully chosen in full bloom
but only to be placed on the death-bed.