Red and tender were the roses

That were placed so stiffly upon my brown desk

The proud blossoms stood arrogantly defiant

Against the pale morning sun

Their pungent fragrance drowned the room

In a thick miasma

The sun shone blaringly at the baby roses

And the dust settled heavy and thick

They bowed their little heads

In shame

They paled and wrinkled

I came to smell the young roses

But found them old and dying

The lifeless color of my brown desk