A flower, a loved one,
Who wilts right in front of your eyes,
And blossoms flaws on skin
Only to one day become,
One with the residue of what doesn’t become gas,
But stays horizontal beneath earth.
Where new floral arrangements
Are placed every year, on the same date,
Next to an epitaph, that tells why she
Existed and why we ceased to exist
After her beleaguering fall.
Its amazing how intertwined life and memory is,
And all we have is an offering of flowers
To a flower that once was, to remind ourselves,
We always were, and always will be,
A bed full of rose blooms, whose thorns,
Only made our hands bloody, and yet stood,
Thicker than water, which always
Threatens to run dry.