A Bouquet

By: Gus Victoria

A flower plucked is a dead thing,

Its beauty wilts as Death commands,

Severed from the stem;

The essence of life,

The flower is a shadow,

Colorful and alone,

Let us play a dirge

As in ironic cruelty,

Beneath the sun we trim and arrange,

A  ghastly bouquet,

To give to a tender love,

Death for a life,

An end for a moment,

A terrible exchange,

A subtle prophecy,

We fade as the flower fades,

We die as the flower dies.

Enjoy then this my love,

Death’s beautiful promise!