Flowers
Why do we crush a good thing in nearly full-bloom,
Just because we know that one day the blossom,
As beautiful and sturdy in its way,
Will die in the same manner of the most uninspiring flowers?
Even the elderly rose petals pressed between the pages
Of a book so much older than the two of us,
Exudes the odor of expiration,
And will crumble beneath the pressure of indelicate hands.
They fade towards decay the moment they are gathered,
And we marvel at the petals like satin,
Colors like Chagall,
And prompt mortality, like everything we have ever been and seen.
You pulled me up from the dirt that nurtured me,
And allowed me to succumb to your hands
Before panicking over what you had done,
Throwing me on the ground, then running.
Here I lay dying-
In your hurry, you stepped on me with your boot-
I’d like to think you didn’t know what you were doing,
But if you did, then perhaps that’s why
You plucked me up so eagerly,
So you could have me for just a little while,
Killing me softly and slowly in your haste,
Picking me just for yourself.
