Eric,

So as the day and the flowers bloom
they fade.
And all that is left of the bloom
is the memory.

And if to go back to see the bloom
they should not.
The bloom is now wilted
And the field has grown over
so all that remains is the weeds.

And the briars…

The briars with sharps to prick the soul
to scrape open the old wounds

Can you leave them alone?
Let a memory past rest in its pleasantness.
Or must you trudge through the swamps to get to a briar patch
where the field used to be?

The violet is gone
but the pain still remains…