Last night I dreamed impending death —
My rosy face rotted,
My sweet perfume spoiled,
My lengthy stems crooked,
My thorns too grown to handle.

Maybe I drank up all the water
in dainty sips and burning gulps.

Maybe I sat in it and
drowned.

Either way the story went,
I know I'll wilt and brown.

The waking was not any better.
I'm sat on a pretty mantle,
burning candles on each side
alighting on this Blossom's fate.

And the moon pushes vast shadows over me.
In days, I will cease to be the centrepiece.

I wither at the candles.
Oh, how I longed to be as bright.
To burn gorgeously until death.

Not
waste
away...

A petal tears from my face.
Dust settles even faster.
They won't dust me off or polish me,
I will let me burn instead.

I hope to grow just long enough to catch its satin flames on my arm —