Beauty radiating from its source,
Life unfurling its colours,
Creation in all its glory,
Is a flower in the prime of bloom.
Then WHAM, SLASH.
It is ripped from its cradle.
Cut from the spring it calls life.
Then gathered together with similar sorry souls,
Splashed into a vase and slapped onto a kitchen table.
There wonderfully it withers until death over cometh.
What kind of sadist, torturer, water-boarder does it take,
To actually seek, spectate and enjoy the death of beauty?
Calculatedly, slowly and cruelly watching life itself leave.
As petal by petal the colour drains and the tips curl as death overtakes.
The fortunate will be rescued in their final hour.
To have their necks brutally snapped,
To spend their dying days in the trash, somewhere between the refrigerator and dishwasher.
There, their life’s final juices life will drain out into the darkness and dankness,
And become one with the deaths of rotting tomato and potato peel.
And the cursed the unfortunate?
Their damsel will recognise their dying beauty,
And grab them by their bound toes only to hang them in a window.
To watch with delight as the wellspring of life springs no more.
As the beauty that was fades into opaque shades of lifelessness,
And with satisfaction she watches the slow, cruel march of death.
Then finally when life has ended and the soul has departed,
She cracks of its head and callously rips its petals off one by one,
And chucks them in a bowl with other decapitated, limbless, lifeless souls.
Then soaks them in perfume pervertedly trying to emulate the beauty she snuffed.
They call it potpourri,
But death gathering dust, is its reality.
Though I suppose it is the wise ripe in years,
Who have their affairs in order,
That eagerly embrace death and its approaching.
While the foolhardy flirt with it,
Treating it and its spectators without respect.
And the foolish, they fear it,
Thinking their last breath from their bodies,
Will be the final moment of life.
Not realising that the wellspring of life will allow them to bloom eternally.
Oh heaven’s flowers are so beautiful!
And here endeth the tale,
Of the limp chrysanthemum.
The Plight of the Cut Flower will be featured in my next book, which has the working title of Highways, Byways and Cobblestones.
Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute toward the running of out for lunch or donate money towards my writing projects, please click on the donate button. Thanks Kel.