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A flower

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The base of it is entangled with the soft ground
Its roots stick in tight to grasp the little water left
After the drought it is way past browned
And nearly at the point of death
Poor little thing
Once so vibrant and real
Coated the horizon in the spring
And had the biggest appeal
But she has long been forgotten
Lost in the hands of time
Left here to be rotten
And to end life in her prime
To what degree does this sound right?
The transformation of something so fair
Into something so bare
Soon she will vanish into thin air
So let us weep over the area of her grave
Because this one we were not meant to save



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