ꨄ 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑ꨄ

XLVI

Winds shall drink the fragrance off my bud-
scents that Spring shall birth what Winter feeds,
yet though I long my life of youthful blood,
t'was promised to give what others had heed-
as we gift our gilded throne
that soon rots like flesh and bone.

With Death that grasped my withered petals,
the earth be poisoned by my festered body-
which buries the last of myself that settles-
under the heavy snow of a spring once gaudy.