Dead Flowers Poem by Patrick O'Reilly

Words like forever are dangerous.
You probably didn’t know.
Chalk that up to inexperience.

Mind you, I’m no Casanova
But I know when things don’t work real well.
Call me a gardener, hands covered in poison and thorns,
Splinters from the lattice of your greenhouse,
Suffocating and small.

Please,
Don’t growl, don’t cry
Over nature’s refusal to keep giving life to these fragile, temporary things
Because all good things are only temporary after all
Just shake this splintered hand
And walk away in peace and futility
Knowing full well, as I do,
That frost is on the awnings
And all your ragged flowers must wilt and die.