Withered

There were roses
Black but not withered
A girl painted purple on it
But it looks dark from afar
When I checked, everything is red
Not even a shade of purple was there
I picked one to check its true color
And it turned brown
I kept it
It died after three days
I should’ve not picked it up
And bothered about its shade
Or
I should’ve not bothered looking at all.

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