Petals drop and droop. Their pink perfection fades.
Soft tears fall for glory. They long for days of sunshine.
Lifeless stems slump down. The vase has long gone dry.
The flowers no longer remember what they used to be.
Once they were plump and lively, the belles of the ball.
Their fragrance was our only drink of choice.
So broken bodies die. We throw them in the bin.
Their withered forms rot. Food scraps bury them.
Fresh flowers are clipped. Another bouquet of sacrifices.