💐
What is the point
Of a plant fighting its life,
Through birth and growth,
Just so it might flourish?
Only for the blossom
To wither in less than a day.
Even if preserved,
It is knitted into a bouquet.
God, what am I to do?
Should I end this misery—
Cut it and forget,
Let it decompose early?
Or should I let it be,
Wait for the slow death?
Its leaves curling brown,
Rotting into black.
Looking at the droplets
On the downy petals,
I feel my own slow surrender.
We both come undone.







