Flowers

Poem By William Richards

I bought her flowers.
Not the bright, multi-coloured kind,
like the colour of my love for her,
but the subtler shades of cream and white,
reflections of my watching hours.

I bought her flowers.
They speak of thoughts that pass the day,
all those loving moments shared,
of ballerina grace, in lingerie lace,
of love that disempowers.

I bought her flowers.
Their reflected light lit her face
even long after she left me here,
and ghosts took her place,
to while away my lonely hours.

I bought her flowers.

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