The flowers are long dead,
their once velvety violet petals
now brittle and crepe paper dry;
their proud heads now fallen
and bowed, yet like love long lost,
not merely a reminder of what was,
but a thing of beauty in themselves,
a brittle perfection worth preserving,
even in death.
The picture is of some flowers my daughter bought for herself and has kept in her room for the past few weeks. You can click on it for a larger version.