The Flowers Death

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Edges curling in, weathered

A depressed muted brown bleeds where vibrancy once thrived

The color of apathy and lost purpose

Quietly spoken, perhaps purpose and possibility were never found

Not all flowers die beautifully

Spirit can fold in, cold and fetal without a sound

Air becomes gnarled, sharply chewing decay in hope

The flowers death

A silent and vulgar unbecoming

Mirroring a life I know

~Alisa Hutton