All Flowers Bend in Time
The sun, beginning its departure, spots me under a new, gleaming light. I sit still as I am facing my vase. My vision attends to a dying flower and a smile takes a liking to my perfectly composed features. This untimely withering is my reminder to change the entirety of my vase. It beseeches that I neglect its presence and capability to spread, but a calamity of such sort implores me to become death rather than have it hunt me.
My bedroom shifted. My most beloved memories tainted my silk curtains and it promptly felt like a stranger has engrossed their roots inside my walls. This unwelcoming spirit invoked my memory of the absent new vase I should have already placed. These beautiful, luscious flowers now have a caretaker, yet they remain ignorant of her peculiarity.
I sat and watched another sunset, and with another, these new flowers ended with bending as if the water they so dearly adored has soaked their pedicel until this flowing river took no more. This defiant batch bewildered my eyes as they were keenly set on these once-perfectly molded creatures.
I understand. Vengeance belongs to a new successor; a successor forbidden from meeting their predecessors. The daemon that is me has little perception of this language of misery, perhaps, but why am I writing these words?
And those flowers grew bitter, dainty, and weak. This home of mine, too, adjusted to that bitterness and my past, future, and present began decaying as I tried reaching for the left pulverized pieces. Years of salvation dedicated for the sustenance of the residents of my vase, now gone away like a letter-less wind. I am now a gardener with no garden, or so I thought.
A part of me was relieved. The dearth of an ending creates a cycle of faithful terror. Beauty should perish, or it won’t be truthful to its nature. All things end up swallowed by their timing. Time has crossed all borders, the dimensions of time and space, and yet has seen not the same entity twice. So, it shalt be. I fear that if beauty subsists until the end of time, we will lose our versatile offerings to the world. This beauty will devour the continents and spoil the rotten earth. This beauty, however, is no beauty in destruction; it is a weapon against all suns and moons.
All flowers bend in time, and it is made that way to show you it’s mine.
All flowers bend in time, and it is only then that their beauty starts to thoroughly shine.
All flowers bend in time, yet I still prefer to pluck the petals one by one.
Suck all and any life persisting within. As though the bending never mattered.
All flowers bend in time, and that is not a crime.
All flowers bend in time, but so would these bones of mine.
