Fleeting Beauty

Gas station flowers, so weary and worn,

they droop like the hopes that we carry each day.

Petals like whispers, by time they are torn,

yet still, there’s a beauty in the colors at play.

I stop for a moment, their flaws come alive,

as if in their dying, they teach me to see

the stories we hide, the ways we survive,

and how even in fading, there’s grace to be free.

In plastic-wrapped bunches, they silently stand,

reminders that beauty isn’t just bright and bold.

It lingers in shadows, in the softest hand,

in the heart of the dying, where memories unfold.