The petals are an eyesore, four score and twenty years in the baking, perfect trust fund babies making rust. I demand dust and echoes to keep track of the years, fourscore in all, but I’m appalled at the fall of tulips in May, and not a single damn day goes by that I don’t inspect the withered roses in my closet, a brown husked reminder of the clause that shocked the masses on the day the cherry blossoms rocked the coliseum.
And yet we live on, no gift horse upon the wind, therefore I fringe the edges, and make pledges to uphold what the roses state in bold. So every so often I dig through the mould and smell those flowers, and once more brave April showers, fearing the day the cherry blossoms come again.
