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