Wilted Beauties

She keeps a bouquet of wilted flowers

on a weary wooden chest in her room.

Roses, baby’s breath, and wisteria

have long since ceased to live,

all shriveled up husks,

trapped in a shadow of their former beauty.

The roses’ petals have all but fallen off,

and soon they’ll crumble to the touch.

That light wash chest trembles

under their weight, whimpering to be

rid of their weight.

The girl, draped in a fading white lace dress

far too fine for her,

sits firmly on her rocking chair.

Her only movement is the occasional squeak

when she plays with the hem of the dress

as she stares at the cadaver of her youth.

Her pinned up hair falls

around her hallowed out face,

strands of washed out brown

tangling with long wet lashes.

She unravels her dress’s sleeves

as her as her mind rests solely

on the fate of a lover who lost themselves

and destroyed her while they clasped hands.

She longs to throws the flowers out

of the rain-stained window near her,

but how can she?

She still recalls their beauty.

Copyright © 2019 by Nita Pan

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

Listening to: “Wild World” by Scott Ruth

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