When the flower withers….(Who will love you?)

Pride and Vanity linger inside your walls.

You’ve fortified your castle with a high

wall of expectations.

Built an intimidating barbed wire fence

around you to stop entry into your heart and

to limit your soul’s connectivity to anyone

because no man is good enough for you.


No man fits your idealized aura of

perfection- your perceptive description

of a tall, sexy man with a body like Denzel

Washington and a smooth, deep voice

like Barry White.

A man with a handsome face depicted

on the magazine covers.

A man from the fairy tale; chivalrous

and brave as prince charming.

A man with large stacks of perceptive paper

and a tall gaping phallus.

A man wrapped up in your illusion of



Tell me now, your highness.

Who will love you when you are cold,

alone and old as the hills?

When the degree of ptosis in your

skin increases; decreasing its elasticity.

Your wrinkles start looking like a poorly drawn

map of the world and you’re reduced to a

perceptive battered shell of your youth.

When your laughter sounds like you’re

choking on the phlegm sleeping inside in

your throat.

Who will love you then?


Who will hold you in the autumn of your life?

When the world grows cold and you need a

human blanket to keep you safe and warm.

When veins snake up your hands and your

movements become drowsy because of your

aging legs and wrinkled knees.

When your eyesight fails faster than your

pathetic University grades – forcing you

to wobble with your cane across the street.

When your smooth, melodious voice becomes

feeble and your eloquence starts struggling

amid jumbled words and sentences.

Who will hold you close through the

cold world, woman?


Who will make sweet love to you when

you’re a feisty antique version of yourself?

Caress your weary body when you’re

stinking of menopause and death.

Run his fingers over your skin stretched

over knobbing bones.

Kiss your worn out breasts that now tickle

your belly.

Desire you even the bounce and smoothness

of your perky belle derriere starts drooping

and wrinkling and you lose the spontaneity

and sexiness you carelessly flaunt right now.


Who will dip inside that dry old pot with

a smiling face?

Proclaim you a Queen, proudly hold your

hand and make an open declaration.

“She is my Queen! She is my Woman!

She is my Wife!  She is mine!”


Who will love you when your physical

façade expires?

It’s in age that he’ll appreciate your

beautiful soul, mind and heart.

It’s in that moment that you will understand

that you need a man who won’t just

turn your head but a love that never ages

even when everything else is old.

Don’t let your love grow when

you’re dying.


So, who will love you when the flower withers…?


©FloetryC 2017



Author: AfroetryC

I am an African woman and a mother to a precious little angel. I love to use the term "Afro-floetic Queen" mostly to describe my poetry and my roots. I love poetry...art, soul music and inspirational bits of knowledge to offer advice and counseling to those who need it. I can be very witty, straight forward but fun. Ha. ha... A colorful perception of the world - expressed in my poetry. I want to inspire people with my Poetry...give them hope, while also advising them. Life is a learning process and i am happy when one of my pieces directly affects or inspires one of my readers. Let's take a detour around experience, and let me fill your minds with sweet poetic juices.... Note: Just changed my user name from FloetryC to AfroetryC because the latter is more personal and describes my Spoken Word Poetry better.

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