Standing in the vase,
bearing resemblance
to sunshines on stems,
brightly blooming hopes,
so they rise, reaching up,
extending in the hopes
of touching the sky.
Tiny petal trumpets,
proclaiming and exclaiming
a Golden New Life.

Like a setting sun,
they start to cascade
down, reducing selves
like dreams that once tried
to win my enthusiasm;
now, like expectations,
they have fallen,
breaking like a promised
future, like my fragile heart.

Stems brown and paper
thin, like my faith
in the life I once
dreamt, they coil
and shrivel
at Reality’s touch.
Like the life falling
from my fingertips,
so goes the hope
that I might become
more than I am.

Curling and browning,
their vows of new life
and abundant hope
remains unproven. Selves
lowered over the edges
of what once tried
to keep them inside,
I gather them together,
like the harsh truths
that sit and scream
deep in the heart
of my every dream,
and toss them away,
together with the breath
of my every burning desire.