Analysis of Flowers Aren't Always Restful To Look At.

You survive everywhere, parasitic, existing, feeding from others.
It's the only way for you - roaming and subsisting.

Compared to you, they are so unblemished.
Their pomaceous handfuls are so fresh.

Fairly inconspicuous, your ivory flowers are overripe.
They look right through you, I should too I suppose.

All fluorescence is fading, both of you are losing colour.
I know you are perishing, that's how it always works.

Once autumn's past, we all wither and die.
Home disappears and this place is white death.

It's all straw haired and beige, different shades but they very same.
Everything dehydrates; there's a brief aromatic splurge and then nothing.

The fires are beginning, the dried brown so easily inflamed.
The strips of petal curls and twist; harsh and delicate silhouettes of themselves.

You used to be striking, overly vivid.
Too full of life and so overbearing for the dull of my eyes.

Now I regret my hatred of you,
as it is now barren

because you left.