Between sheets of wax paper,
I am pressed.
Tucked in the back of yearbooks,
awaiting fond nostalgic looks.
Perfume faded, bright colors now dull,
my stem withered in the intervening lull.
On and on the silence drones,
flaking, brittle petals, alone,
I am pressed.
Once representing passion, love,
now a memento, I am seldom thought of.
Into history to be forgotten, lost.
An archival footnote, gold leaf embossed.
I am pressed.

M. Zane McClellan

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