RoseAnn V. Shawiak
The Death Of Beauty
Nature playing peacefully around me as I sit in inner turmoil - full of doubt.
Hot heat from the sun soaking quickly into my skin.
Slightly blowing - a windy breeze blows gently, barely cooling me off.
Leaves and dead blossoms from bougainvillae bushes scrape across the cement as they are blown around.
A little breeze comes sneaking up on me - picking up my hair - cooling my forehead a little.
Bees are buzzing lazily, touching flowers and taking off.
A bouquet of bougainvillae broke off and fell into the waters of a fountain.
Lying sadly atop the water - in it's mercy - it gets blown about even though it would rather not.
Getting plenty of water, which to drink - it lies - slowly dying, because there is too much of it.
Beauty in the water's depth, sadness as it poses for a grave.
Light, unknowingly a vigil keeps - showing everyone the death of beauty.
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