Blooming season
A windowpaneA dull empty spaceOtherwise dismissive Where else should a pane sit but beside its window? An indent on the wallQuaint There!On that windowRest several potsFilled half-heartedly with shrunken soilAnd withered flowers of some bruised colour As these flowers wiltTheir colour drains In their retirmeent they have tired and aged Their expressions ring blueHaving lounged until ther timely death The warmth of the sun Nor any amount of water could resolve them Their necks hang low Until their veins are droughtAll olive-tones dried stiff They were almost destined to die in this wayPlucked from the earth to decorate our homesTo be forgottenTo dieTo be replaced To die and be replacedTo die and be replaced That is their valueWe make it so.