Blossomed

It blossoms it dies
No one yet sighs
live amongst the
dead pedals
believing the lies.

“Yes, it lives
Carry on”, they say.
Yet on and on,
day by day,
we take the 5:15.
Harkening back
reliving the times
Grandmother
Grandfather
in their youth sublime.

We hijack their home
Make it our own
And laugh as we do
Never bidding
That pure, sweet adieu,

Arrogant at best,
Slavishly so,
We have yet to conceive
That of our own,

Throwback the hands of time,
Let mercies be,
that which once lived,
was once, it truly was,
a real you, a real me.

We dance the pretense
of creation, something new,
when all it really is,
are all things old,
a fog of reality,
in a mixed up view.

We crave an art that breaks away,
From the long dead flower,
That led us astray.