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Rigor mortis settles

in the flakes of petrified petals,

gathered in a jar so clear.

Embalming my colors

with thyme and lavenders,

masking my scent once dear.

 

Held on display

to rot and decay,

why child?

Do you not fear death

for the amount you spent

to toss me after a while?

 

I too had a home,

only to die so young

and become a decoration.

I can’t feel anymore.

But here I am by your door

welcoming your guests with deception.

 

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