Gardens

gardens

are brimming with life

enough to make a Romantic cry

but these roses

they shed tears of a different kind

no thorn 

could be everlasting

and each petal

is stained with its own mortality 

the irony of it all

we give bouquets for

celebration

while the flora

are attending their own

funeral

we select crystal vases 

place them carefully 

on the windowsill

bestow upon them our 

sickly sweet admiration

we think we value them 

when really

we pick flowers

just to watch them

die