I was far too lost in how beautifully striking they were Too lost to notice the withered with age Then cracked when I touched to admire Morose exhaled the death of these fine flowers Dried out of love and beauty They collected dust where hues of livid red and snow white displayed themselves. A bundle of frail, wrinkled flowers, xeric and unrecognizable I still felt their beauty through their destitute for the eath and its pure spring They ate themselves until they were nothing but ash and stems But I still felt their beauty, as I gathered the remains, I buried them in the back of my mind I buried them somewhere BEAUTIFUL