Flowers

We’re merely flowers strewn around
The headstones of our dreams,
Earth’s dresses clothing skeletons,
While graying at the seams.

Softening breezes grace the paths
On autumn afternoons,
And nightingales pay homage to
Another month of moons.

Winter’s selfish fingers tear
The leaves from all the trees,
As distant stars gaze mockingly
In glistening coteries.

Though spring retakes the stage with all
The ardor of a lover,
And smiles as the skylark courts
The pearly clouds above her.

Then summer reigns within the jeweled
Grandeur of the sun,
Ere giving way to autumn
When its gleaming rays are done.

Through all this change, one fact remains,
A hollow, saddening fact,
One which pleases no one but
From which we mayn’t retract:

We’re merely flowers cast about
The headstones of our dreams:
Evening gowns for skeletons,
And nothing more, it seems.