This Flower

This flower,

this life:

petalled and

fragrant it seems

in the

sun-stripped breeze.


Form, colour

and appearance

of happiness

and beauty

are contained in its stems

and petals.


But the brown

creeping colour

of demise comes

soon enough,

defiling the petals,

with his cold certain hand,

like a mad painter who,

having lost

his pallet of beauty,

can only paint death.



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