The flower sits on the table, withering,
it looks tired now. Slumped.
Dead dry leaves litter the ground
Perhaps not watered enough, perhaps
drowned with rotted roots
Perhaps too much sun as it
sat in a hot room,
or were the shades drawn too tight
not allowing enough light?
Choked off in some way
it was, to look so.
Either way it was neglected.
Best just to throw
it way now.
by Philip Wardlow 2019
Death appreciates life , just as life appreciates death.
Both are impartial to the other.
A cold touch caresses the
beauty which flits to and fro
How are we to interpret the horrors of this vitality
when we ourselves are trapped in a purgatory
of our own design?
Perhaps a small light
shall lead the way for each of us
in our final hours as we lay
in our deep dark
By Philip Wardlow