a dried flower – a poem

a dried flower

how can you touch me
when I can't touch myself?

how do you feel my presence,
when I've been feeling nothing.

a dried flower,
losing its scent,

trying to keep its color,
my essence is beautiful, hauntingly,

the kind of beauty you look at and say
'how beautifully sad'

something enigmatic to hold
yet very simple to feel

a dried flower,
losing its charm

keeping its forever calm,
for forever now.

what would you call it?
tragic or beautiful

when something once alive,
ends up being a bookmark.