read
write
members
about
account

 

datedatememberrandomsearch

September 21, 2012
The flowers have died. It didn't take them long.

Sighing, the bowed their heads, unwilling to look once more at the sunlight that filtered through the windows, becoming grubby and oily. The warmth of the day faded like paint. Like an old man's eye-sight. Coldness crept in and fingered those leaves, rusting them away to mulch. It touched the petals, breathed on them, turning silk to rot.

There was nothing to be done. They had to go. No metaphors of mortality in my bedroom. No place for corruption of beauty. So the flowers went. What else could I do?