You walk through your garden;
I am standing tall.
You pick up the lilies,
the daisies,
the honeysuckles,
and the petunias.
You put them all together carefully
and place them in a vase.
Then you return to glance once more at me.
You rip me out by my roots and throw me into the trash.
The bouquet is on the table mocking me while I rot alone.
I die fast, but the flowers slowly whither away where all can see.