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Dried Roses

By Akshita


I love dried Roses when they are more brown than red, 

As if screaming to the world a silent plea. 

Their smell is subdued, a corpse of a sort drenched in modesty. 

I love roses when they are brown, 

When they wither away at my slightest touch, 

As if accepting their date succumbing to moribund. 

I love roses when they're brown because their existence is a metaphor of sweet afterlife and minisculinity of life.


By Akshita


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