When I die, I will lie with the roses.
Six feet underground, in the cold silence.
But I swear, if they give me plastic ones,
I’ll rise up from the grave to punish them.
The plastic roses will live forever,
Eternally blooming in their bright youth.
They will stay forever young and foolish,
Never going beyond the horizon.
They will have a beauty like the sunrise,
But it will be as fake as their petals.
They will have no wonderful scent to smell,
Or a reason to make the world better.
But I want mine to both age and wither,
To live life to its fullest potential.
I want them to fathom what love is like,
And to grow wise and mature as they age.
As years pass, I will fade with my roses;
But I will have lived my life to the brink.
I will have known what true love really is,
And held the tarnished hand of Father Time.