Tomorrow Melds Within
The perfume of cut roses
is keeping me from sleep.
Tomorrow melds within the scent,
hurting my head.
Sunrise comes before I fade into
quiet.
I think the roses are starting to wither,
but my vision is blurred and I can't tell.
Their sweet smell is stronger
than it was three days ago
when I put them in the vase next to my bed.
Beneath streams of sunlight
I find dreams of wilting gardens.