The two wilted roses lay
faded to a dull maroon,
the way they had been
A petal of the petals bent
as if reaching out slowly
to touch the other
The slow tick of time
pulled a fast one on them
disappearing in the flick of a swish
The thorns blunted
and the stems bloated
Yet their last breath they did not foresake
The drop shall fall, said Yin
and with it us, the other
Isn’t hope just prolonged despair?
The drop fell, and so did they
their petals reaching out to each other
Falling, reaching, blooming.
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