the weeds have gathered, now
around the pretty flower
those who's dripping drool
gave her life
have left it to wither
in her aging sunlight
there's always something new
on the horizon
a prettier, nano second
of admiration to follow
and yet, on the surface, a blossom
of unmatched beauty
but at the root, the slow decay
beauty and strength
are a true illusion
that everyday, after birth
is our slow wither
onto our aging sunlight