Flowers mold and brown;
rain is allowed to cloy them
if no one cuts them. So humble,
the gardener, such fuss...
Press that precious gown
deep in the book. Employ them
in stark bouquets, in a tumble,
their nectar a sweet pus.
Let us cut them down
while we can still enjoy them,
before they harden and crumble,
before they become -- us.
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