Pretty Flower
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Time heals, they say, yet mine stings,
With memories sharp and whispered things.
Pretty flower, red like blood that stains,
Why do you fade, despite all this rain?
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Time heals, they say—but your hue gradually grow dim by days,
Darkening slowly, shade by shade within.
Red like fire that danced and died,
Ashes now, where flames once cried.
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Bright red stains, then orange, then brown,
All things fade as time pulls them down.
Pretty flower, pressed in page,
Still you wilt, despite my cage.
Tell me, flower, has time eased your pain?
Or left you dulled by silent strain?
Once so vivid, now pale and cold,
Has time always been this bold?
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Why doesn’t beauty choose to stay?
Why must you obey to time’s decay?
Had I not plucked you from the light,
Would you still burn in crimson bright?
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Perhaps I erred, to keep you near,
To claim your grace, to cage my fear.
Had I let you freely sway,
Would you still bloom to this day?
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Pretty flower... was it time’s decay,
Or my desire that made you fade away?
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