I used to crywhen flowers died.Dry my eyes on Van Gogh’s canvas.Monet pulled me from the ground.Money preys us all to carcass.
I wipe my cheeks and grab my brush,paint the petals pink and lush.They’ll come again, so I won’t cry.Impermanence is but a lie.
When that sudden day does come,I knew it would, still I succumb.Salty drops water my page.Shall I paint the petals gray?
Death by unrequited love,first from the foot, then from the Earth.When heart and flesh do decompose,no wreaths line the leading souls.