Fire burns, as how the flower blooms,
Light and fragrance brightens shadowed rooms.
The lily is the first blossom to grow,
but too soon, too soon, her petals go.
The rose, in red, a gift to the eyes,
But sooner still, burns out and dies.
And the Dahlia, at her sister’s cue,
Glows red, then blue, then blackened hue.
She burns the longest, her colors bright,
A star against the acrid night,
But finally, her time is gone,
And the black takes hold just at dawn.
Investigating that heartbreaking scene,
Three girls remain broken, ashen sheen.
But only one retains her grace,
The worst burnt, charred of body and face.
Silver, silver, a perfect crime,
No fault given-though here, it’s mine.
A flower sprawled across the scorched area,
I stare down at the dead blossom of the Black Dahlia.
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