Love is a dieing flower
Kind and Beautiful at first touch and smell. Perfect In every way. But every winter brings a new pain and spring never heals you all the way. By fall you start to turn gray as your peddles star to thin away. Your smell which swaded now start's to go away. As if each day the scars on your stem grow deeper and darker spreading every way. Till you fall to your earthly grave leaving me in complete dismay. For such thinks to dwindle away as fast as they came. But your ash's shall help the new seed grow so I can fell it once more.