Potpourri

Petals fall.

Dried they fall rather quickly.

Stomped beneath the feet of passersby.

None of who knew that they were once a symbol for love.

Dried husks of affection.

Nothing more than aged vegetation scattered down dirty streets.

Even nesting birds ignore the rubbish.

But I swear, I was once adored.

My petals fragrant, jewel-toned and the texture of velvet on skin.

Not a memory anymore.

Now a nuisance the wind blew up into your face.

M.V

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