Once, I grew in a garden,
but, now I am part of a death bouquet;
on top of a coffin in a funeral home,
I suppose it is an honor but I feel doomed.
People passing say we are beautiful roses,
(not for long I am thinking);
then, a fragile, gentle hand touches me,
and pulls me away from the others.
A girl strokes my petals,
and holds me to her cheek;
I feel her tears falling on me like rain,
all day she holds me tightly in her hand;
often kissing my petals.
That night, she places me in a glass vase,
and I hear her weeping in her sleep;
in the morning I am a little droopy,
just a little weak.
I cannot hold my head up,
but she calls me beautiful still;
each day I am fading, withering- dying,
and I know my end is near.
Soon my petals fall, fall, fall
and the girl picks them up- each one;
putting them in a pretty bowl,
and that is how it went- 'till;
more of me became petals,
until there was no flower left.
Yet, the girl still touches my fading petals,
and calls me beautiful though I am decay
I want to tell her that beautiful is not my name,
I whisper to her- my name is love . . .
July 7, 2020
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1266-602-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the PREMIER contest, The Flower, The Thorn or Both
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke
Copyright © Constance La France | Year Posted 2020
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