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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