• She is slowly beginning to die
    Like a flower right after its bloom
    She cannot help but wonder why
    They would fill her with such gloom

    Her body is growing weak
    Like a flower as it begins to wilt
    Its inability to support is bleak
    Her body cannot take the pain; this was not why it was built

    Her finger nails, painted black
    Like the tips of the dying leaves
    She has been told she cannot go back
    And this, she believe

    She sits there solemn
    As she writes this deathly poem
    She finds this a problem
    Like the dying flowers, she has no one