Roses Fade

Early Sunday morning there was a cloud on the horizon and as the sun rose, the cloud moved with it. Midday everything was dark.
Somewhere, past where, the sun shined, but not there.
Days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and the sun that had lit the land lay dormat, cloaked, concealed, shrouded, and the world was dark.
"God's grace lost and the Devil is proud," the stereo told him, one time.
Clouds grew thicker and the world was darker and he knew, somehow, past sometime, a little later after yesterday, that he was alone and the cloud was here, the sun unable to penatrate.
"What a world,"
"Beautiful, isn't it?" She says
"When you're on top. All I have left are dried roses."