Flowers Do Eventually Wilt
H
Hazel Durham
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Flowers do eventually wilt.
She perches her red hat at a sassy tilt,
Her skin is rose petal soft,
As she lives in a damp, one bedroom loft,
With her beloved fading rugs and coloured candles,
She moves like a dancer, in her openwork sandals,
Her flame red hair, hangs long and loose,
She often misses Mildred her pet goose,
On her stepfather's farm,
He hasn't a ounce of charm,
With his watery, steel, grey eyes,
Piercing glances that causes so much harm,
His darkness and cleverness is like a wily fox,
At times erupting like an evil Jack in the box,
With his thunder and lightning,
She run's away from the fear of all the fighting,
He made them pay, as he was their master,
Which made her run to the city even faster.
Now in her twenties, with her senses so alive, each day,
As she admires the view over Dublin bay,
She is blooming in a beautiful way,
Freedom is these city streets,
Where she finds no defeat,
With people glancing at her fresh face,
Lit from within by a blazing sun,
As she walks at her own dancing pace,
Love is the reason she lives to chase,
A man of talent and wealth,
To give her comfort,
To embrace his warmth, in some exotic port
As she perches her red hat at a sassy tilt,
Because flowers do eventually wilt.
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