Dead Flowers

I used to see with my eyes open wide,

looking for things I wished to understand;

wishes falling to Earth during high tide,

falling just out of reach, their sleight of hand. 

Dreams withheld their dues with their old dead hand,

as cold as those dyed, dried, and dark flowers;

dyed to remind the gilded promised land,

Reminding I of our guilted scours.

I felt the start of the witching hour, 

Seconds fly, no longer held in restraint;

Restrained my sight, vines tied to willpower,

Sight gave back, I still don't believe in saints. 

Believing in saints, dreams, and old wishes,

 that is when the last gray petal wilted.