She looks as pale as the petals she swiftly picks off the daisy

discarding the pure white pieces carelessly on pavement while wasting precious time waiting for the wind to pick up and power the plucked flowers feathers from the place they died

death is a flower, a daisy specifically

The lady every day without any peculiar fail picks up a singular soulful flower from the bin of botanical beauty.

A daisy of any sort

dyed or blank

and pays her fine of a singular dollar

slips it in my hands about as fast as she slides her self and sandals outside

and plucks the petals, pleading to the sky to answer

"he loves me.. he loves me not.."

patiently wasting away for the day "he loves me.." ends the flower

but the day never comes.

and since death is a flower, her luck must be a reaper

waiting for the day she withers