Ugly Flowers

'Loves me, loves me not, loves me, loves me not'
and with that its petals all plucked
thrown away,
This flower (?) dropped in dismay
is left to rot in headiness.
For that pale yellow head 
holding pollen and dissatisfaction
is all that remains of the once heady scent
that would perforate the pores of the air
and make it hang heavy
heady
with the weight of all pulsating in it, 
around it;
Now rid of its petals, aromatic,
the flower head does not smell.
Does not smell anything, much less sweet
does not look anything, much less pretty
so it lies at the foot
of the ugly wooden park bench:
It resigns itself to the soil
and learns to love rot,
learns to prettily decay, not display
because it has no other choice
than to rejoice
in its slow death
and hope, perhaps, that the rain might hasten it.

Crumpled flower from the same bush fares not better.
The wind, you see, shook it loose
so it fell, pendulating on its eddies,
and somebody— a different kind of romantic, perhaps—
picked it up and held it
cupped in her oh-so-gentle hands.
But she did not, could not, would not
and perhaps most importantly: wished not
to keep holding it
to keep it with her,
not even in her pocket, forget the heart:
so she yelled 'Coming!' to some faceless figure
and the flower, now wet from her sweat,
and crumpled in her oh-so-gentle palm,
was dropped on the ground
in a flurry much less pleasant.
Now no one, not even romantics,
bother to pick it up.
For what can you do
with this abandoned, crumpled flower?
It's not pretty enough: its once electric purple
faded to a lonely lilac, 
so wrinkled its petals
so crushed its stem
It's not even Flower anymore: come on,
we'll find a different one, a prettier one
and it will learn to revel in rot too.

2nd April/ (2/30)/ Free verse

Featured image credit: Alan Shapiro on 500px

4 thoughts on “Ugly Flowers

  1. Ah, memories of childhood, picking flowers, stuffing them in pockets, picking their petals wondering if our crush loves us or not. A youthful carelessness born of innocence. Petting the puppy’s head just a little too forcefully. Setting a precarious glass of milk a little too close to the edge. In time we all learn finesse, in our actions and in our words. In time we learn to smell the flower (allergy meds taken ahead of time) instead of plucking it, or at least setting it in a vase filled with water. In time…
    This was a wonderful poem. Keep NaPoWriMo going strong!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I really do think your comment’s pretty enough to be a poem, might steal some of it for my next one 😛

      For real though, this is why reader response theory is one of my favourites. Your interpretation of this contains things that did not actually go into the making of this poem, but now have added another layer of meaning that is your creation and have hence transported it from the ‘my’ domain to the ‘our’ one. Thank you, Dan.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Obviously you’ve never grown daisies. That yellow center that you think is dead and wasted is FULL of seeds that will bloom every year to make whole fields of flowers. Dried daisy centers are FULL of life and potential. Potential is a beautiful thing…

    Like

    1. You are indeed correct, I have never grown daisies. But yes, the life hidden inside that supposedly dead centre that most of us think is ugly and not even worthy enough to be called a flower was one of the things on my mind while writing this. Thanks for reading, Daemontine.

      Like

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