A memory,
Thoroughly rinsed,
By rainwaters of time,
Is the cadaver of a blossom,
It's past glory obscured,
By an opaque film
Of tired soot.
The chain that cradled its core,
Ravaged, by its unruly bout with the inevitable,
Is sorrowful. Lonely.
The others, they sought nothing
But pity from this marvel.
For an empty memory, entombed
In a glass sarcophagus,
For all the ignorant eyes to jeer at,
Has estranged petals, sealed
Away elsewhere,
With seldom room enough
To breathe.
The flower is decaying meat,
Leaking noxious gas.
The stench of its loneliness,
Strong as a widows loom,
Combed through,
By mother's sulfuric tears.
