I mourn the dead flowers,

Withered and dry,

Void of color and beauty.

But from their broken stems,

And dirtied petals,

I spot the story within their death.

They are flowers for dead loved one,

Left my loving hands at a cold gravestone.

“Even the dead tell stories.”

That’s what I say anyways,

Everytime I watch my lover

Leave me flowers by my grave.