The flower so wilted and almost dead
Conjures thoughts into my head
How can something so frail and lifeless
Somehow appear so lovely and timeless
It's hunched over, crooked, twisted
Yet nothing like it has ever existed
Even when shriveled, the flower holds beauty
It is innocence, truly
Such a thing is oxymoronic you might say
It is so lively and still so gray
How long till such beauty dies and decays
I can only sit there and watch it wither away
Slowly the petals break off and fall
Now my flower isn't lovely at all