Once upon a time, I died.  

Waiting for something, timeless, 

I had no mind

For when and where I was - 

Only what I had, 

Could have, 

Couldn't have

Forever.  

 

Decision fatigue, it seems, 

But I cannot force beauty to compete with beauty, 

Or they would be beauty no more; 

And besides, flowers cannot fight.  

Only thorns can protect them 

From those like me.  

 

Each rose to its own, 

Raised within my backyard, 

Beauty marks upon old, withering skin 

Wilting uprooted all around them.  

I remember that I feared 

Running out of time, 

Precious and fair running out of life 

Before I could pick the perfect compliment 

To a lover's hair.  

I did not yet know which one.  

 

Orange and yellow, smooth, 

Upon raven layers, 

Or big and beautiful, blooming bright,  

Adorning her brown hair just as light?  

Perhaps pink geranium... 

Except it's for my folly, 

My melancholy, 

My preference... 

What does it really mean?  

If I'm to place the flora for her - 

Her waves, or curls, or ruler-straight strands - 

What will she think of me?  

 

If I'm to pick and choose, 

Why don't I ask 

Who is willing to be the proud vase in my living room, 

Who trusts that I'll tend to them every day, 

Who will put down their thorns so I'll let them grow?  

 

Seasons pass, but beauty never dies.  

There they are, being alive - 

Messy black waves, long brown hair, 

Dark cascades, and all - 

And over it all, darkness reigns; 

Yet, I'm reminded of the golden dream, 

The hysteria, and 

The pink geranium 

As they walk away from me after leaving me their own kind.  

Each droplet of rain courses their petals that never wilt.  

And I - I lie dead in the ground, 

But I have been left a beauty mark forever.