Wilting
By: JoAnna Martin


As usual, my mind is wandering,
thinking strange thoughts again.
This recurring day dream,
what could it mean? 
An immense field.
Absent of color. 
Except for one speck of red,
everything else is dead. 
I draw near to take a closer look
at the object in the distance. 
The wind blows
one lonely red rose,
it sways with the rhythm of the breeze.
The petals are glazed 
with drops of moisture from a recent rain.
My eyes strain 
to focus on the blurring image of the flower as I stare.
I am taken aback 
when in fact 
the image starts to change as I stand there.
I watch it start wilting,
shrivel and tilting,
changing from red to black 
before dropping its dried petals
that are lifeless and  cracked.
And that once empty field
is now covered in roses,
all bleeding their crimson majesty,
pouring together into a dismal sea. 
They leave the entire land 
covered in brittle petals.
Time passes me by as I stand
encompassed by decaying beauty
and do nothing
but watch the petals lay.
Dust settles in and still I watch,
hoping that one day 
their brilliance is restored
and the damage goes away.
But it never happens. 
The damage never goes away.


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