Death Flower Poems | Examples
These Death Flower poems are examples of Flower poems about Death. These are the best examples of Flower Death poems written by international poets.
Unsure on way I was vacillating,
My thoughts walked way ahead me waiting there.
Now I’ll reach you, love, ere feet reaching there,
And wet you with love ere rain raining there.
A few of our friends when come to meet us
Shall barge in ere e’en air entering there.
I try and soothe senses of your kind soul,
You pause plucking flowers flourishing there,
I tell you, flowers will die anyway,
And shall die a slow death suffering there.
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Ghazal |16.09.2025 | flowers, friend, love, rain
A point of time alone I mark,
And shine it best I may,
And plant brave flowers upon the way,
Before I must embark.
i'm a small flower
a seed gifted to you by the universe
meant to grow under your care
flourish
people don't like getting seeds
they don't want to plant them
to care for them
to be responsible
they'd rather have a fully grown flower
no work, easy
put water in a vase, leave it to wilt
slowly watching it die
only watching
not interacting
as life slips away
why didn't you try to save me?
i could've been so beautiful
if only you wanted to plant me
help me grow
care
people don't really like getting flowers
flowers die
i died
why am i temporary in everyone's life?
It has such beautiful petals
With dangerous thrones
Offered as a sign of love
But used as a sign of death
Roses can be everything
And they can be nothing
A perfect living paradox
Given to an imperfect species
© Poem – XXIX/VIII/MMXXV
LRET
The sound of summer is about to subside.
Orange-brown butterflies in calm sailing flight,
with fine arches and rapid wing beats.
The admiral in parade uniform and magical wings.
Autumn adjusts us,
we slip into the sleep of the dark ages.
The late-blooming flowers must also kneel.
Birth, growth, decay, aging and death.
Swollen buds, sprout once more.
Floral splendor that soothes and heals.
Where silence lingers and time feels slow.
A farewell is melancholy, as dew in my hands.
You see the evil doesn’t look at all condemned
Those evil troublemakers of mankind
Are well remembered, way above the nameless dead
Who by the will of country rulers had to die
Because the actions, as you say my darling dear
Speak louder than words, and so they act
As if they had too little history in rear
So thinking they’re unique in making pacts
They settle on the same old evil plan
The same catastrophe, the same vain sacrifices
Inevitably ends it up, as it did then
When those like them disdained the words of wise
Complacency can’t be outsmarted by the cruel
Can’t be reported by the frightened flatterers
Complacency is always punished by the rule
With no exceptions to it, but that’s not about us
We can’t relate to those obsessed with power
To their staffers, games of death and hymns of glory
The bumblebees collect the pollen from your flowers
And there we are, in our eternal garden story.
In this summer month of her what would have been her 21st birthday,
I see bed of withering red orange tiger lilies and say,
"Your death reddened you, yellow flower, into an orange, then red."
Crumpled flower by the roadside,
sadly wilted, withered, and dried -
for asking, I beg your pardon:
whilst never cared for in a garden,
were you pretty before you died?
I love you, 'cuz I know you tried.
They will not honor your fragrant breath
They’ll use it as ode, or veil, or death.
Not love, but lack—will wear your name,
Your petals will ache beneath borrowed fame.”
Lotus's voice now split Nefarys in bloom and bone
A bloomquake of breath from root to stone.
It hummed through husks and whisperseed dark,
Not all bent—but some curved toward the crack.”
They conjured a crown from the tilt of her head
And wore their suspicion like garlands of dread.
Rose's poise now echoed as plotting or pride
As if grace could not bloom without thorns to hide.
She hadn’t crowned herself, nor thorned by decree
But rumor, like ivy, climbed every tree.
Petalring came, and Nefarys stirred in bloom-fire,
Drifting in garlands, in hymns spun from lyre.
Colors rang louder than the lull they concealed,
And praise filled the air, but one name was sealed.
Rose drew near the rim where the chorus ran high,
And Tulip stepped forward, with a glint in her eye.
“You sit on your throne,” said Lily, stiff and clear,
“This isn’t your place, your roots end here.
Rose turned, not defeated, nor eager to flee—
But as one who had grown past the ring’s legacy.
There's a place without walls.
For those who swear that they are floors.
and oh how they die like a flowers bloom
they lie so still in forgotten tombs
(It's not to late to care)
Oh how I miss the lunar gloom
back when stars filled the sky with forgotten tunes.
Come and take my hand don't be afraid.
here are all the words you were trying to say
(It's not polite to stare)
I know a place where we could go
it feeds on your fears to sooth your soul
(It's not to late to run)
I know you will die just like the flowers bloom
you are so beautiful.
Flying over the front lines
with the French Escadrille Lafayette
a brown and barren belt below
a strip of murdered nature and yet
during the warm months of spring and summer
seeds in the shattered ground would grow
delicate vibrant crimson flowers
in row after row after row
and in those poppy fields
that's how we remember them
all the fallen soldiers
those unforgotten gallant men
tho' Waterloo was won in a day
in a mad minute this battle was waged
while larks sang overhead in the month of May
four weeks and more it raged
before they beat the Hun had them on the run
it soon became apparent to the allied commanders
it's a long way from the playing fields of Eton
to the poppy fields of Flanders
Death came today...
taking my sweet Jess from me;
to an even better place, I pray,
than this life we shared so passionately.
If only I could just hold her,
keep her a moment more;
but alas, God has called for her,
now she sleeps evermore.
So many small things I should have told her,
too many feelings left unsaid;
I can only hope she sensed my love
was stronger than words instead.
As I pass through this day of lost love,
there is but one thing to lessen my pain:
her promise that one day,
our two souls will be one again.
So someplace I'll plant a single flower,
brighten a lonely place;
and hope she knows it blooms for two,
an endless love for one never to be replaced.
They all wanted to be
“Real men”
So off into the cruel seas they go
In a big scrap of metal..
Might as well be going to their coffins..
And so they did, i never saw them again..
And when i think of them,
all i can see is the pain and
suffering they had been experiencing
I wanted to be a real man too.
So off into the fields of sand I go..
The skies were a dark indigo.
And i look down at the ground below
My feet
And I see
A small blue forget me not..
Lying dead on the sand..
And then I too, lie on the sand..
I have fought wars in my head
And wars with my gun
I have buried my friends
Because they wanted to be
“Real men”
Forget me not solider.
For i am your dearest friend
And if God cares so wonderfully for flowers
that are here today and thrown into the fire tomorrow,
he will certainly care for you.
—Luke 12:28
saw my first yellow daffodil, not ever,
but mine.
a standalone on the hill;
my husband sighs,
as he points it out.
the sun is a standalone;
His;
yellow-white, bright.
our attention transfixed.
I am a standalone
me -
the crucifix,
to carry;
I walk with Him,
under the sun and clouds.
God lets us glory
on a fixed moment,
as if it were framed, not always.
each tear that falls,
from my green eyes,
is saved
by Christ.
I emphasize;
He underlines
and exclamation points.
how this can be,
with infinity,
our small minds
cannot divine.
saw my first daffodil, there’ll be more,
they’ll spring, and wither;
and so will I,
but don’t be glum,
I am already buried,
like a seed,
planted, and ready
to rise,
inside a Garden of Pearls.
the Metamorphoses blamed it
for the death of lovers
who met under its branches for suicide
the Old Testament believes
blood from its fruit
triggered war elephants
to do battle against Jews
wings peppered with color
fold together when at rest
ancient artists who became inspired
made them immortal in stone
insecta we share with flowers
now praying to be left alone