Wilted flowers,
Dying by the closed window,
In the the darkness they cower,
Suffering through the lack,
Of days spent with you.

These flowers jewel my childhood,
The colour in my photo book,
Now distant, cold and grey,
Petals falling each time,
 A maybe doesn't come to life.

Flowers see the mask,
The man hidden beneath,
A shadow of who he used to be,
Or maybe it was always pretend,
I was just to blind to see.