These roses have gone down well. 
Blanched of mauve glory and robbed 
of their satin, a darkening edges 
veined petals in stark relief, the buds  
now fossils of their becoming. 
I tend them as if freshly sheared from 
the bush, as if their fragrance still sang 
of Spring.  Beauty, bundled 
to draw death out into a drawl, into 
a dream you simply never wake from. 
Dying lovely on my table, their heads 
unbowed even as their stems soften 
and turn nightshade in the water I change 
daily, lavishing the care I don't have time for, 
rinsing their rot from my fingers.  
The key to ruin? Letting rot languish  
no matter one's state. 
Whether I ever hear them or not, 
their elegantly withered bodies blare  
in the afternoon light,
grace is always grace!