Old Flowers

Sitting on a vase

Well-watered, yellow'd petals laying on the table

A glass of red wine, a smear of blood on the side

To my heart's content: my heart's content.

The pulse raised right above the table's threshold

My pulse has risen, now quite stable

I smell dying roses, but also the floral fragrance of magnolias

Dead-dry champagne of another bottle

A lifeless celebration

The staleness of old bread, a deep consideration:

You're sitting, yet floating, in stark admiration

You count 'til 10, beat pounding's mitigation

Is it arrhythmic, deadness anticipation?

Stop rhyming, in heathen celebration!

The gutural singing, the mindless propalation

...

You count 'til 8, now

'Til 7, the same pace

'Til 6, circling (and repeating)

'Til 5, feeding off the beat(ing)

4, 3, 2, 1

Don't go. Please, don't go

I'll smell you forever.