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The roses

The roses I never sent her
Will now have died.

Or maybe they were never cut
And they’re flowering into a bush.

Maybe they were all ready
And just sent to someone else.

The roses I sent a stranger

We’re they even ever mine?
But they feel like an artefact
That were only to me
What I envisioned them to be

The strangers celebrating love
But for me they are being forgiven
For us not being enough

But, the roses I never sent her
We’re just flowers all along
Dead, Alive, Compost or Dried

Love never lasts
Like a flower with no roots

My gifts will be trees
In a forest with no boots

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