A wilting flower

Time is a
wilting flower.
It roots itself
in every man’s
garden,
then leeches off
other’s nutrients.
Near his end,
his petals fall to the
earth.
Like shattered glass,
our lives are
fragile petals.
Defensive, but not whole.
Beautiful, but broken;
when the time comes,
and the wind blows
our gentle flower
away,
it will be carried
to a beautiful place.
Filled with quiet company
and other forgotten
dreams.
When you’re born,
a flower blooms
within your soul.
Just to mock you,
for your world will
never be as:
simple, beautiful, or
complete.
It claims your
memory,
then dies and
decomposes.
Our memory is
carried in our
children.
Our curse too,
for time is a
wilting flower.


Perhaps there is
a glass jar
containing words
I should have
said?
What if there’s a vine
around my throat
that only loosens
as I lay in
bed?
I took a walk
within a forest
to see the world
that I have so badly
missed.
It was filled with
litter
and a
starving
bird.
There is not a
tint of happiness
from the glare
of the sun
upon water.
Only the flame
of an aging
sun
and a ticking
bomb.
There is no connection
in life,
only a contract
that time has rid
void.
The ground beneath me
has been claimed by a
blue wilting flower,
and there is no other
garden.