Hymn to Decay (Poetry)

The freshness of the flower starts to fade
the moment that it’s picked decay begins
bright colour bleeds a fraction of a shade
the glow is lessened — gradually thins.

Too soon the dew evaporates and leaves
harden in the steady glare of sun
their youthful green shines new and hope believes
that time might stop and death forget to come.

And so the bloom upon the flawless cheek
dulls its pretty blush as seasons turn
loses lustre — passes its short peak
once blood has cooled and passion’s ceased to burn.

The page has curled its edge — its parchment white
wrinkled with deep lines — a frowning scrawl
anxious with ideas that seek the light
yet knowing dark will one day find us all.