Edges curling in, weathered
A depressed muted brown bleeds where vibrancy once thrived
The color of apathy and lost purpose
Quietly spoken, perhaps purpose and possibility were never found
Not all flowers die beautifully
Spirit can fold in, cold and fetal without a sound
Air becomes gnarled, sharply chewing decay in hope
The flowers death
A silent and vulgar unbecoming
Mirroring a life I know
~Alisa Hutton