The Reflection of a Dying Flower

A flower not seen is like the diminishing of meaning,

Colour fading away as if my being is no longer me,

As if everything I ever lived for was a lie, a truth not worth keeping,

Something spent and decidedly with no certain need to be,

The eyes of the beholder are a web in a flower garden,

The portals through which the shyly vain can be hungrily admired,

Like mirrors capturing opinions that over time harden,

Revealing nothing but the fallibility of those most desired,

Every garden is populated with things beautiful and grotesque,

Mingled together like the characters of a delightfully tragic opus,

The macabre fates of all twisted like an unhinged obsession,

Holding together a reality that promises nothing in each moment,

Everything passes through the hazardous fields of perception,

Without cover from construal and its boxing inclinations,

Even I in first person cannot be an exception,

Hunted and preyed on by any other’s fascination,

Watered by a need to be wanted I am prone to whittle,

A shivering silhouette in the shade of towering normalities,

What I see in me at times seems so little

I lend an ear to my vanity and suffer for it romantically,

It takes just a single seed to sow a world of illusion,

Coming from inside or outside the consequence is always the same,

Dazzlingly bright its growth is mired in confusion,

Stretching or bending by force or will there is nobody to blame,

Everything is aligned and the elements have made the perfect recipe,

A pattern is followed that strangely allows for dismantling error,

I see myself perfectly in no need of any remedy,

Never given any meaning I see things much clearer

I Am The Spider Farm Manager

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2 responses to “The Reflection of a Dying Flower

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