A Wilted Wallow of Willing Willows

In a dying garden a girl walked among the fade of the roses
The wilted browns dwindling through a line till they were cool gray
In the depths of cold and winter, heavy in the shade of the trees with no leaves
The wilted keep on dwindling until the facade they use to have gives way to faded memories
In this their final bow before the curtain unfurls in its horizontal falls and folds
The wilted will silently escape the evisceration of the world as the rest of the living become dead
In all the world no one really cared to take the steps that would result in the scent of the dying roses
The wilted seldom want to be adored as the skin cells know the score having died always
In those oncoming tones as the phones ring off the hook and their annoyance ring and ting
The wilted cannot cry, for they cannot feel, not of their stems, not of their senses, not even of their non-existing souls