A red rose.
Bright, beautiful, and full of life.
A smile spreads across my face upon seeing just one simple red rose be placed into my hands.
Living its life sitting inside a small vase filled with pure water.
One leaf gently breaks off two days later, swaying back and forth, making its way down to the ground, coming to a rest on the area directly in front of my toes.
I bend my body over slowly and smoothly, scooping the detached leaf into my cupped hands before rising up to a straight-backed stand.
A look of empathy and sorrow crosses through my eyes as I stare at the now-dead leaf in the palms my hands.
I know that the rose's life is starting to fade.
One week later, I visit my beautiful rose again.
It's petals are wilting, struggling to stay up and alive.
Two of three thorns have fallen off the rose and sunk to the bottom of the vase.
I lend a helping hand to the rose, allowing it to hold itself up temporarily.
Both of us are determined to keep it alive.
Three days pass before I check up on my lovely rose again.
The petals are wilted and dried up, partially turned a dark dark red and black in a few rare spots.
The vase once filled with water is now empty, not even a drop left.
All is dead as I carefully carry the rose outside and place it atop the pile of compost.
The once bright, beautiful, and alive rose is now dark, sorrowful and dead.
Bright, beautiful, and full of life.
A smile spreads across my face upon seeing just one simple red rose be placed into my hands.
Living its life sitting inside a small vase filled with pure water.
One leaf gently breaks off two days later, swaying back and forth, making its way down to the ground, coming to a rest on the area directly in front of my toes.
I bend my body over slowly and smoothly, scooping the detached leaf into my cupped hands before rising up to a straight-backed stand.
A look of empathy and sorrow crosses through my eyes as I stare at the now-dead leaf in the palms my hands.
I know that the rose's life is starting to fade.
One week later, I visit my beautiful rose again.
It's petals are wilting, struggling to stay up and alive.
Two of three thorns have fallen off the rose and sunk to the bottom of the vase.
I lend a helping hand to the rose, allowing it to hold itself up temporarily.
Both of us are determined to keep it alive.
Three days pass before I check up on my lovely rose again.
The petals are wilted and dried up, partially turned a dark dark red and black in a few rare spots.
The vase once filled with water is now empty, not even a drop left.
All is dead as I carefully carry the rose outside and place it atop the pile of compost.
The once bright, beautiful, and alive rose is now dark, sorrowful and dead.
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