Will death come to me 

with the fragrance of irises?

The waxy purple — my crown

upon a future throne and velvet robe.

Life had gifted roses

left to wither

and carry as a ruined birthright.

A red crest pinned to my chest.

I’ll travel from life to death

with an orchid at hand.

Fuzzy greenish-white scepter

that will never fester.

In my tomb, 

iris, rose, and orchid will rest.

Their petals dry and breaking

Like a girl who leaves none aching.