Questioning Life?

It was just a flower.
But it sparkled as though laced with gold.
It fit perfectly in my ungraceful hands.
And then,
I found tears in my eyes.
And I’m not quite sure why…
Because when everything bustles around like a busy hive,
The bees ignorant and pushy,
Shoving cripples down in the street,
There sits,
The Lonely Daffodil.
Not thinking about anything but the next breeze,
The next rainfall.
And we see this lonely daffodil,
And all we think about is how pretty it will look,
Being carried around for a day.
And then,
It dies.
It dies a lonely death because no one can hear it screaming,
As its spine is ripped in half,
And its blood drips clear,
Down the murderer’s fingers.
Begging for death.
Begging to be put back.
Just because we can’t understand its language,
We can’t hear,
The Lonely Daffodil screaming.
And that shouldn’t be.
We shouldn’t tear a living thing in half,
Because WE think it’s beautiful,
So WE want it.
Is that it?
The end of life?
Extinguished slowly,
As our petals wilt and fall away,
Leaving us naked to the whip,
The cruel world bears down on us?
Beating us like the rain cutting through our skin,
The cold touch seeping into our bones,
Pummeling our bowed heads,
As we struggle through the marshland that is this world,
This life.
Is that death?
Is that existence?
Do we run out of words in the end,
Our tongues swelling and stiff in our mouths,
So we can’t apologize?
Can’t pray for the end to come?
Do we beg for the sweet severing of our souls,
So we can float off into nothingness?
Do we know then,
What we never knew in life,
That we made a difference,
Or we hurt others?
Does an angel come to collect?
Is Death standing at your door,
His bony hands knocking on your soul,
So he can take you away to whatever is beyond?
Is that death?
Do we answer the door?
Or are we afraid to look through the peephole,
And see the lonely daffodil,
We picked,
It’s angry soul coming back for us?
What is left?
Are we afraid to look at the beautiful flower,
Dancing in the breeze,
And know we are about to sever a soul,
With just a single jerk of our murderous hands?
Why don’t we look?
Why can’t we see?