Cut flowers are like a sunset,
Beautiful but soon fleeting,
Colourful but soon black as the leftover, forgotten ashes of a fireplace.

Cut flowers are as bound as the chains that bind the prisoners of this life,
Little place to move but with the false illusion of freedom and no way to end it,
Stuck in a clear prison with barely enough sustenance to survive until            the impending, inevitable dark.

Cut flowers are as free as they think they are,
Cut flowers are as free as the width of their imagination.
Cut flowers may be physically trapped and imprisoned as a prisoner of skin and bones, or stem and petals, but they can be free as a young girl running through a wondrous meadow on a bright sunny day,
If only they will choose to open their imaginations to the true freedom of their minds.