burnout

pushing through a rat race

the roses in my hand withered away, they

hung their heads,

tired of the weight.

a victim of life,

became a

tyranny of their

own fantasy,

betrayed by their own petals.

sickled by their stems

I’ll be in the sky

They told each other, I can’t be like

the grass.

yet the grass became their grave

and the sky their slayer.