Under the gray sky
In a dreary meadow,
One with the trees and fallen leaves.
A raven flies overhead
And the cold north winds
Start to creep in.
But in between two oaks is where they lie.
Once flourishing and lush, just like this meadow.
Shriveled up, facing down
With a pile of petals
Upon the ground.
No color left, in stem or flower,
The thorns are still sharp,
But no life inside them,
Ready to fall,
Shriveled Roses.