Dead Rose

The dead Rose sits at the table,

Alongside my ancient book of fable .

Next to it sits my diary,

Containing secrets nobody knows 

But me ,

I lay in my room as it shows,

Oh , I just wish to exist solely.

I let out a sigh,

As I acknowledge that time 

Goes by and by.

Apathy's a tragedy 

And boredom is a crime,

I escape from reality,

And fled to my fantasy.

Yet I sit with my dead eyes ,

The light inside of me dies,

And in a pseudo identity, I disguise.

I lay in my room,

And accept my doom.

As I wonder about death ,

And the ones who are dead ;  

A blank expression on my face,

As a war goes on in my head .

Death now , doesn't feel strange,

More like a distant memory ;  

Then I wonder if I am derange ,

And glance at the drooping flowers of ivory.