The weeping petals of a hollow flower

What has she lost, this hollow flower grown from rural roots and darker tidings?

Was that second life inside her dead before her decision was made?

Was it alive only in her brief optimism?

I guess that was all gone once the incision was made.

Now this synthesis will live only in her idealist slumber,
where time was in accordance, society was warmer,
and familial pressure was turned to joyful disregard.

Good night dear nephew or niece.
You're everything in between to me,
and I'll always love you.