Do they wither away
Like a colorful rose
plucked away from his home
Or become sharp like a broken glass
That can tear your skin apart
Are they somewhere
Hiding from the world, healing?
Are they lost
In a permanent state of mourning?
Or have they stopped beating
Left in a cold wooden box
In an open graveyard
For others to see
As an emblem of tragic love
Or are they the wanderers
Sitting on an unknown grave
Crying for a stranger
For a broken heart knows
The pain of thousand deaths