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  • Writer's pictureKeira Jones


Flowers are beautiful,

Until they grow mold.

No more does their fresh scent linger,

Throughout our homes.

Withered and decaying,

No longer do they roam.

They revert to the earth,

No blooms to be shown.

Calla lily, daisy, dahlia,

All on their own.

Hoping, praying,

To discover the unknown.

Funerals are a hoax,

Even to the old crone.

She saw what they didn’t,

No more seeds to be sown.

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