What do you see when you look upon the withering flower?

Does it talk?

If it did, would you listen?

Its petals tell a story-- 

A not so distant past obscured by frondescence.

Does it bloom along with the rest of the foliage or does it thrive on its originality?

The unsynchronized cadence with which it lives--

The break from the mold that was not intentional, but forced.

Can it survive but be swallowed in atrophy?

Does it die but leave a memoir?

Or does it grow dim in harmony with the night?

Seemingly abandoned and at a loss for words.