Rotting
Dead irises,
In the vase,
Wilted and brown,
Sit on the desk.
Homage paid,
Don't know why,
Just throw them away,
Yet there they sit.
Carcass of what once was,
Wonder why they stay,
Not asking why,
Don't want the lecture.
State of being,
What is rotting,
Stays as memorial,
To that which is gone.
About the Author: Brian Bucks lives on a small horse ranch in Western Nebraska and is a husband, father, electrical engineer, and poet.
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