The petals open,
fragile as the thought of ending,
and the bloom sways,
unaware of the silence
growing around it.


Each breath is a weight,
pressing against the ribs,
like soil folding into the earth
underneath an endless sky.


The scent of death lingers
in the softness of the petals,
a sweetness too sharp,
too final.
It smells like surrender,
like the last exhale
before the body falls still.


The flower unfolds,
its beauty sharp as grief,
each layer a quiet plea
for release.
It opens with the same quiet violence
that consumes the soul,
waiting for a moment
when the pressure
becomes too much
to bear.


In the fading light,
you watch the petals curl,
and wonder if they, too,
wish to escape
the weight of their own bloom.


And yet, it's peaceful—
a slow descent
into the dark soil,
where the pressure finally stops,
and the bloom fades,
as all things must.