Pink, little soft, often wilting, smelling like wet rot.
These flowers come to me throughout the day,
Fleeting and impermanent, worth not much, but a lot,
For a moment, they make life worth living.
Sprouting green things, losing light things,
Pieces shake off with the slightest move.
So fragile, most not for planting,
Pre-cut to ensure the ideas never take root.
Simple memories I bring to bed and not beyond.
I too have been losing light things,
Not as swiftly, but more fearfully.
I was always wary to lose petals,
So much so, I failed to appreciate my true blooms,
I chose to anticipate the wilting ahead,
And now might have missed my strongest hour,
Preoccupied by the thought of a fall from grace,
And loss of youthful beauty.
Because I was taught there is no beauty beyond youth,
Once the flowers in the vase start to droop,
You toss them out.
With the rest of the things you have no use for.
I am trying to claim the rest of my time,
And gather roots where there weren’t meant to be any,
And find a way to soak in the sun,
And grow, to spite this prophecy,
For one of the best smells, is the wilting of flowers,
It’s the closest to true earth.