Petals of a plum colored rose rise softly on a warm summer's breeze, but the rose is silent and knows not why it withers. The keys of life are stone cracking blows that bring mortals to their knees. I once met a man who tried to explain the reasons why; before he could, he died. Maybe, maybe it might have been a lie, like one's first love, just a sigh! Tears are not proof one cried. They are brief bitter snips of the past, that were never meant to last.