There must be a million different types;

Zinnias, Orchids, Tulips, Daffodils,

And the list goes on.

They all have a purpose.

Color clarifies their personality.

Imagine that. 

I don’t know what I’m looking at.

Sometimes I have a blank stare: tabula rasa.

Of course, you have your Carnations;

Pink is perfect.

It means I’ll never forget you.

And then there’s the orange Lily

Standing up arrantly for hatred.

That’s all fine and well until you get the Rose.

How many poems and songs were inspired by this plant? 

Even a 5-year-old will tell you red means I love you.

But for those who mourn the dead resides dark crimson.

You cannot unsee that color.

I cannot fathom how long it’s been. 

I cannot plumb the depths.

It seems like decades since I saw Ronny alive.

He wasn’t much on you, Jesus, but he sure could make you laugh.

Ronny was special.

He was really just a big kid when it happened to him.

I heard it was an overdose, but I don’t care about that.

I wept in a corner.

I know I was not there for him.


So be it.


I wonder what type of flower Is for me?

Maybe it's the white Azalea for its fragile passion.

Or maybe just because it’s fragile.


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