Flowers scattered around grey.
The momentos of ordinary days where people walked.
Some are real, with water in their petals
as they fall to the ground in the cold.
Some are fake, course cotton and glue
holding them together, feigning to cheat death.
Only a few last without getting dirty,
but none of them last eternally.
Standing in metal vases next to stones
marked with epitaphs, nothing grows.
Loving mother, honest man, precious son or daughter.
Irreplaceable woman, enchanting man.
So many roles. Now all that commemorates
them are pale flowers and stone.
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