how far will I grow
when I am only fed the scraps
their rough knuckles
my ever yielding petals
how many bouquets must I give
before my leaves finally wither
my stems shrivel
and my heart and roots grow still and cold
will I too be knarled and twisted
like the trunks above had foretold
I am running out of petals
and now the air is cold and tastes like metal