Under the gray skyIn a dreary meadow,One with the trees and fallen leaves.A raven flies overheadAnd the cold north windsStart to creep in.But in between two oaks is where they lie.Once flourishing and lush, just like this meadow.Shriveled up, facing downWith a pile of petalsUpon the ground.No color left, in stem or flower,The thorns are still sharp,But no life inside them,Ready to fall,Shriveled Roses.