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"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

John Tustin

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The Flower Is Dead

The flower is dead –
beheaded at the neck,
taken down by wind and circumstance,
on its side on the side of the path
half in the puddle,
tongue hanging out, still lovely,
waiting to wither in the new sun.
Its color eroding, its contents emptying,
spilling its beauty like a gasoline rainbow in the water
in the gutter.
Its death is without music,
wordless, perfect;
unseen by all but me.