I used to cry when flowers died. Dry my eyes on Van Gogh’s canvas. Monet pulled me from the ground. Money preys us all to carcass.
I wipe my cheeks and grab my brush, paint the petals pink and lush. They’ll come again, so I won’t cry. Impermanence is but a lie.
When that sudden day does come, I knew it would, still I succumb. Salty drops water my page. Shall I paint the petals gray?
Death by unrequited love, first from the foot, then from the Earth. When heart and flesh do decompose, no wreaths line the leading souls.