Flowers at the door.

Whilst we gather many thoughts,  on life, and death, and the other side,

it’s a passionate thing to shed a tear when hope misplaced where roses died.

How many flowers have been given to express the heart, only noticed by the flaws of a fragile depart,

I’d  pick the petals of in counting make potpourri out of death, and salvage their  very drops of a potion in my head.

Just to have the clarity of a single stem before it dries, I’ve noticed the hardship, the battle as it cries,

oh flower,  just be still, life is dangerous but often will ensure the fight is long and hard, but bare your beauty and a card.

For whatever reason you’ve been chosen,  to mend or break a heart, apart,  I long to feel the very essence you disclose as art.

Indeed we all find insight into things that go unsaid, but there’s a sorrow bounding in my head,

shall I remain within that kiss, where roses come to reminisce of times of love and grief betold, when the flowers grace is old,
 

to certain points of a mad detail, there their beauty set to frail, and withered like the skin I hold, path what way to make them gold.

I haven’t touched the light withheld from a single tear , flowers live as promised always,  but cut would render dear,

their fate, their longings,  what dreams may a flower embrace,  a fortunate vow in love to plead,  a sacred honer from darker times, when intently bleed.

I haven’t given much to thought about the eternal rose, but infinite realities face that flower , and probable love entoe, 

although Encaged it has now staged,  the time it had to grow. And unlike death might balance love in a form arranged to see, a bunch of dried out roses hanging low for me.

Must I endose such an endless feeling by throwing away their lifeless limb, or replicate another sorrow bound because of him,  some flowers mean forgiveness,  other’s more than anything it’s the flowers joy, it’s a pretentious world we live in, when the garden is as toy,

we make hence of their beauty,  short-lived they always  say,  but what may come from receiving them only love would stay.

 We can question a flowers death, and while we wish it to live longer than the last, we never question the length we have, or it our time is cast,

what about our garden, we don’t always nurture with which we need, but find a way to procreate the seed.
 

And love in life I guess is inevitable when two souls fall so deep and true, because one garden is never enough, 

we find another too when life becomes a journey towards the other side,  we pack more love into our hearts and never wish it to subside.

Reach for more and hold it clearly,  life is precious we love so dearly. What happens when the flowers know their fateful end, and garbage bags proceed to claim,

it’s like a priceless moment gone,  only the memory can refrain,  I know we think about life as if it’s never going to end,  and that precious feeling of hope is enough that death becomes a friend, 

to fear the end would limit love, for all our kin that past before, wouldn’t they be waiting there, with  flowers at the door.