Flowers, withering without water.
Drying, dying, none to care.
Petals dropping, one by one,
Dying, drying, abhorrent, uncared.
The slightest breeze and several fall
Dried, died, yet still fragrant.
Their perfume fills only the imagination.
Reality is the smell of stagnation.
The aroma of death,
By midday sun or moonlit night
They fall, dead, dry, parched.
A flower head bends, droops,
As if looking down,
searching for the water.
Leaves, curl and crisp
Pale to the eye, pallid to the touch
Drying, perishing, bleached of colour.
Stalk, brown and shrivelled.
Crisp to touch, hard, unforgiving.
This is my life, my love, my death.
My very existence, displayed in a vase.
Arranged with care and an eye for form.
Such beauty once was there
Now dead, so dead, so dead. So very dead.
This is what I dread.
©Jospeph R Mason 2021