I remember the pretty things I have broken,
with such cutting words have I spoken.
At life's imperfect beauty mocking me,
more than I can obtain, more than I can set free.
Yet I must have that ragged flower,
mere survival belies its power.
Should I wait in safety to watch it wilt,
or pluck it before I feel some guilt.
Or perhaps watered by silent tears,
it will grow some poison in the years.
As the Sun sets and my shadow grows tall,
it may be that when she is plucked I may fall.
I shall lay with her through darkest night,
entranced by her form as I lose the fight.
Waking with a fever sweat of morning dew,
her lingering touch fading as I warm through.
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