Beauty is Decline

Can you contemplate the wilting flower?
Delicate, thin and glass-like in the sun
With health that drains under civic shadow
Pitied, plucked, torn and set to cold foot-stone?

Holding fast against rolling waves of heat
You can see in the straining of each root
That stretch on up to tight, efficient leaves
Where its strength is regarded as weakness.

I admired the brilliance it lent me
For some like to see beauty in degrade
While others trod over that which is life
Assuming the worst in the march toward death

Each one passed over does not understand;
Cruel ritual that staves a loving hand.

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