People write about how the flowers wilts too fast,
that nothing beautiful are meant to last. Yet we
still cut them from the stem, trap them in a vase
from the worlds avast. I heard those poems
condemning mankind’s woe against nature, felt
the heat and pressure and water rising until
my mind drown in guilt and passive helplessness.
So, when I saw it sitting in the glass of water amidst
homely comforts I almost cried. It started as a bud,
content with what it was given: a mere sip and it
blooms, stretched towards the universe to scream
beauty and faith and love in brilliant pinks. Then,
it reached its greatest.
It grew limper, each petal losing the fight to gravity,
and I lost to the gravity of the situation, trapped by
the symbols and metaphors I used to trip myself on
my way to the table. I made it before the first petal
dropped into the water, now a murky mess with a
hint of pink only visible if I pretend that I remember.
I caught a petal, and tried to preserve it, searched up
ways to save the shades and beauty, sing to to it with
optimism to fight inevitability, and dried and wrinkled
the colors somehow remained. The only question if
it was merely a memory and if the petal in my hand
was just painted paper.