You are no longer a vision of life and beauty, now a rotting pot of compost.
Your leaves are wrinkled and have a yellow hue.
Your smell reminds me of the scent of autumn; all the leaves piled high, showing the death of another season.
Your stem is drooping, as if showing defeat.
As I stare at your broken figure, another saffron leaf falls to the mound of dry soil beneath you.