Withering petals fall to the floor,
The vases of rotting orchids that lie inside this closed door,
It comforts me to watch them die,
If they could feel, would they cry?
They fall to their death with such grace,
While my death-throes are a bloody, painful haze,
White petals wounded, bruised with black-brown,
In their musty, perfumed scent I drown.