Pluck

As a prelude to a harvest.
Of beautiful heads and slender stems.
Comes the bloom of life.
The rotting of the old to be buried out by the tree.
The one which hangs heavy in winter.
Topped by snow and sad inclination.
Each flower a moment in time.
Spun forth from destiny on tiny fingertips of the forgotten.
Names not to be held in the mouths of the mortal.
You pluck the rose from the marrow,
and gaze into the eyes of beauty.
While it slowly wilts into time.

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3 thoughts on “Pluck

  1. “Each flower a moment in time.
Spun forth from destiny on tiny fingertips of the forgotten.
Names not to be held in the mouths of the mortal.” Divinely beautiful!

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