I came across with a dead rose.

How impure and crooked it seemed.

Deteriorated without the life it once had.

I kept walking with it, holding it with my right hand.

How sad it was to see a rose like that.

Where once it was bright red,

now it’s only a brown looking thing with nothing left.

I kept walking with the dead rose,

a sad rose with no thorns.

Until the path ended in a familiar place,

 a place where I once knew.

I left it where it had a life once.

I gently put it down in that cold place,

of happiness and bitter ends.

Only memories with no nostalgic meanings.

A place were a dead rose was given to a dead friend.  

-G.N.D.