Dead flower in the Fresh Garden


So there's that young garden
With all those pretty flowers
Each one standing out in its own way
But really just one or two catching your eye.
But even when such new buds
Open right before your eyes
You're still picking on the dead flowers
In the young garden with the pretty flowers.
Fresh and full of life,
Attracting and distracting
Yet you still remain there
By the side of your dead flower
All its beauty vanished physically
Now only remaining in your mind.
Way past throwing away time
Yet it's in your hands.
Why are you still picking on the
Dead flower in the fresh garden?