Imaginary--Thoughts

Why does the sun rise on roses in soil starved bone-dry as a hot drought in July, their delicate vines and leaves brought to boil? Yellow petals wave against empty sky. If they dream, do they pray? Do they wait for years with their hopes held like seeds? Rain seems relief or short roots rotted with too many tears. Should shriveled flowers believe in belief? How do they grow in dead lands no one knows or can see? How do they trust in honey- sweet words thin as dust? Each pale, bleeding rose fades like the echo of a symphony.