Robbed of moisture, the flower droops.
Light petals once soft and pliable are now brittle and dry.
The bright color long faded to dark hues of its former glory.
Gravity pulls the weighty head down and tugs petals loose from the stem.
The flower is spent.
Dry crumbly flakes fall like tears, forgotten memories of days past.

Such a short existence,
fleeting beauty,
gone before its time,
plucked,
fragrant,
then spoiled.

What does the flower think of itself?
Is it proud to have given itself for a cause?
Or does it feel its life was wasted and cut short?

Gravity pulls the weighty head down and tugs petals loose from the stem.
The flower is spent.