TheEire

A cursed flower counts the days, That love has passed me by, I count the petals endlessly, Awaiting there to die. Each petal's fall a knell of death, Translated into beauty, A fate accursed placed on my back, And styled as a duty. Duty weighs so heavily, And death is but a feather, Yet the mountain rests atop my back, A burden I must weather. The flower's final petal makes its most fluid decent, The crushing weight replaced by a feather's elegance.