The Lotus Blossom

A decayed, withered lotus blossom,
Once a succulent, pinkish hue,
Half buried now in cemetery sand,
The grayish tint of death.

Now crawl on them, little bugs,
That feast on dead human flesh,
Once adorned like bling, the glorious flower,
Little worms that fed on life.

Together with our lone blossom,
At least a dozen there were more,
Now strewed along like sandy dunes,
A bouquet once they were.

When full and red, they signified,
The full, quivery lips of the One,
Whose shaky heart then ached in vain,
Now alongside, they rest in peace.