November

Alyssa Shonk || Fall 2025

Rose petals wilted
porcelain into mud, spots
speckled its blades, whipped
by collateral wind–

Pot of wretched cement
curated classically, waste
ripped from its form, dirt
deep-rooted within–

people crossed their arms,
trampled on a leaf, reddened
with season, its veins
deteriorated into mache–

the flowers scoffed
as death decays.