Raindrop Roses

Roses on my table,

floating in a puddle of dew,

petals layered next to savouries,

and a bittersweet, Greek brew.

 Posing on my dresser,

 claiming centre stage,

  they're luscious leading ladies

among gentlemen jars of sage.

They sparkle in the sunlight,

eclipsed only by a gingham shade,

 basking smugly in the fleeting limelight,

until their striking beauty fades.

Too much sun for a starlet,

can the process of aging start,
 wilting her vibrant spirit,
and breaking her tender heart.

Left with traces of her brilliance,

(when youth beamed on her face,

 allowing her to upstage those
 tattered, and time embraced),
 she, now uprooted, muted and diluted,
was replaced by fresh cut hopefuls
in a curvy, half-full vase.

 Sadly, 
when scarlet petals 
snap from brittle stems,

then tumble to the ground
 like drizzling rain,

  tiny, blood red teardrops,

stain their souls 
with endless pain.

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