Rotting flowers can still smell sweet,
With wilted grace and curled-up leaves,
They cling like moss on pale-grey tombs,
Perfumed corpses in full bloom.
The garden grins with crooked teeth—
A wilted wreath beneath its sheath.
Their petals drip like congealing tears,
Entombed in amber from yesteryears.
No bees will buzz, no birds will sing—
But hush… hear the ghostly butterfly wings.
They glide th...
