A Potpourri of Sorrows

There's a potpourri of sorrows,
That sits mingling upon my shelf;
With an oh so familiar fragrance,
That keeps me trapped with in myself.
The rose buds once were fresh,
Their beauty full of youth.
And it wasn't until I cut them,
That I had realized the truth.
As I watched them slowly drying,
My heart was filled with hope.
I denied that they were dying,
If preserved then I could cope.
But now the buds are brittle,
They're too fragile now to touch.
So they remain upon the shelf,
Because the truth, it hurts too much.