Our flowers once flourished—

How did petals fall down?,

Tell me why I feel famished,

Why I feel like a clown.

You make my sight bitter,

Cast my eyes to the ground,

Masochistic pleasure

Must be cutting my thorns down.

You make me miss your clouds and rain

Covering the grass in my soul,

A sick sense of pleasure I get,

Questioning if you keep me whole.

Spew my hopes onto dandelions,

And the specks get into my eyes,

Where have my doubts disappeared to?

I’m still bruised with love and demise,

As I still return,

To our dying garden,

As if there is saving,

As if there is waiting.

There is nothing but rot,

Nothing but hidden tears,

But uncertain grieving

Halts me from leaving.

Rotting flowers can still smell sweet,

And I fall for their scent every time.