Love is a Bouquet

It took me a while to write this poem. Not to mention the time it took to look up all of these flowers that rhymed. Oy! But I'm happy with the way it turned out.

Love is a Bouquet

Love is a bouquet
filled with pretty, little, flowers.
Sometimes they’re lilies,
daffodils, or posies.
Other times they’re marigolds,
orchids, or roses.

Bought just before its prime,
blooming and blossoming
before the recipient’s eyes –
baby’s breath; breathing
cocks comb; combing
poppies; popping
and bird of paradise; paradizing.

Love is a bouquet
in full bloom.
Smelling so sweetly,
like a French perfume,
petals fanned out
in carnal symmetry:
beauty incarnate;
the epitome.

Love is a bouquet
three weeks old.
The flowers, all dead
and dieing.
Dried out, brown,
hard and stale.

Death’s selfish fingers
do impose –
even on roses,
posies, and marigolds.

Love is an empty vase.