Blossoms Falling – a poem

Tales of the apocalypse told now,

Rather than later, the end is ever

Nearer than we think, like corpses

Piled up, the death scents cloying

Like those morbid tales of spoiled

First world fascination.

*

When the blossoms have all fallen,

Rotting on the roadside, putrid

From lurid pink to dirty yellow,

Brown conglomeration of lost life,

Like our dreams mesmerising less;

Desperate for help.

 

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