Dead Roses

Roses are red,
Red until they become dead.
After that they turn black,
The blood color they now lack.
Early they start to crinkle,
Too late do they realize their own wrinkles.
Down they shall fall,
With only a sad message they give to all.
Bringing about such gloom,
But never again will they bloom.
Scattered across the narrow beaten pathway,
With dreams of a lifetime so far away,
Even as they rot,
Still living not.