Withered flowers upon which dust now gathers,
Stripped of their mortality,
Eternally imprisoned by what they once meant,
What of that remains?
They shun the light, not willing to release,
Their last gasp at beauty,
Sweet smelling rot imposing on their poison,
No one left to witness.
I suppose I should bring myself to throw them out,
Wrenching away memories,
Still not seeing, understanding why,
Giving something thats dying,
Is an act of love.