Burning with immediacy,
shivering at banal glory
and stuffed in a crystal vase—
the last of!
Blushing pastel perfection in shades of seasoned pain,
pulsing a throbbing fragrance of feigned innocence,
petals cling to denial,
floating feathered dreams—
inevitably, striking the senses dull;
amorphous, yet exquisitely alive,
Summer's roses
fade into the disconsolate—
last of.