There are days,

There are days,

When even flowers

In a vase

Smell of sorrow.

Turned old,

Like brittle twigs,

On broken gravestones.

Covered in moss

And the last remains

Of a scattered bouquet,

From a wedding feast.

Cast into the wind,

By a weary maid

Who wanted no part

Of the romance,

The best man’s speech,

Or the first dance.

She had cried,

At that grave side before.

The only one to remember.

And as she sits alone

In a quiet room,

With the curtains drawn,

She fades in the gloom.

Red and golden hues

Dry to brown,

And petals fall down,

On the old oak table.

They form a wreathe,

Around the frame

Of an old photograph.

She had to laugh,

Just looking at it

Brought a tear to her eye,

And colour to her cheeks,

For the first time in weeks.

It was either that,

Or

Like a spray of cut flowers,

That brightly bloom

For just a few hours,

She should do nothing,

But sit and wait,

And accept

That her fate,

Is to slowly wither and die.