They fall, solitary or clustered,
Sloughed off by life’s inexorable spiral breath.
In, out, expand, contract, live … die.
Festoons of come-hither signal the winged eunuchs.
“Here it is,” they promise, “oh, god, yes, like that, just like that.”
The fluttered fuck and go,
Impetus for their petaled existence,
Transports pollen-life to the whole,
And withering death to the succubus slivers.
Swirling skirts, once lifted, tatter.
Made use of, purpose served — rejected.
Only virgin flowers count.
We blame them, the men,
For following nature’s unnoticed pattern,
Scrived so boldly it blinds us,
And weeping, we wonder why, falling down to die.
[Image credit: morguefile.com]