i am all sharp,
pointed thorns,
this morning.
like a rose far past,
the glory of it's gentle, summer bloom,

i am decay, atop,
a stick of spears.
all bloated,
with dismay...

at time past,
and beauty lost,
great is the fear,
of new beginnings
and the loss of all,
i hold dear.

just cut me down,
for kindness' sake.

throw me, into the dark,
so i can quietly break...
down.

then with time, my hubris
will become earth's humus

and become,
of some small use,
to some one.