'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