Yes, my first clue, I now know, should have been
your love of beautiful but dead flowers;
the sickening yet sweet smell still lingers
though you have been gone these many hours.

With innocence, to you I gave roses,
a promise of love and life in their bloom;
they symbolized my deep passion for you,
their scent permeated every room.

With guilt, you accepted roses from me
and then, though some life was still evident;
from water, you took these symbols of love,
crucified, downward they now hung, life spent.

Bound by cord, your roses hung upside-down,
inverted, they soon dried and mummified;
they were the prisoners of the window-blind:
against this backdrop, you schemed and lied.

Live roses lie on the altar of love,
dead roses should lie where others decay;
you would lie where and when you could;
the past tense of lie is not always lay.

You did not seem to fully comprehend
that your dead, dry roses were really you:
dried, tied, and mummified, yet you still lied;
what was that person I loved, and who?