John Tustin
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
post-storm,
half in the puddle,
tongue hanging out, still lovely,
waiting to wither in the new sun.
Its color eroding, its contents emptying,
splayed,
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.
Bio
John Tustin's poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.