Hiding Beauty in Decay

A field of golden flowers.
Each unique, different from its neighbor,
Yet unmistakably beautiful.
Cheerful chirping of native birds,
Quiet buzzing of honey bees.
A perfect blue sky, scattered with decorative clouds.
A lofty breeze weaves its way
Through the stems and petals,
And the whole of it all,
Sways gently, as if rocking a baby to
Sleep.

I reach out to grasp a flower,
Its petals wither and die.
I wrap my fingers around a single
Dainty stem.
The entire flower collapses,
Falls to pieces.
The soil under my feet
Devoid of any nutrient.

As I gaze up to the rest of the field,
All I see is death.
Each and every suicidal
Flower lies pathetically
On the acrid dirt.
The once happy birds
Now ruffled, bloody piles
Picked apart by vultures.
A sickening silence fills
The frozen air.

I pass through this once beautiful field,
In lonesome acceptance. Each landscape I have traversed
Has given up,
Hidden its beauty from my
Eyes, so thirsty for beauty.
And this field of flowers is no different.
As I step off the once fertile ground,
I peak over my shoulder,
And see that without my presence,
It is beautiful once again.