she was

not unlike
a flower
dried on
the window sill,
once fresh
and vibrant
and fragrant,
stem in the water,
bent towards
the sunight
and the hope
of tomorrow,
but now flat,
and done, a life
lived short,
cut from the field
and plucked out
to decorate
the life
of a stranger,
who never
really loved
or adored her
for the flower
that she was.