Death in a vase

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

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Eugi’s Weekly Prompt – Petals – July 29, 2021 – Eugi’s Causerie (amanpan.com)

Brown Circles on the Grass

Brown circles on the grass mark the place of landing.

Flat and trodden down where they milled around.

They come at night, stay a while,

then disappear as if they had never been.

Leaving the brown circles of dead grass

and the smell of fuel hanging in the air,

testament to them being here.

They don’t look odd, they look and sound like us,

dress like us, talk like us.

I wonder where they came from.

I wonder where they will be going next.

They’ll be back next summer.

When the fair comes to town.

© joseph r mason 2020

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com