A phase of life in which crows peck at your heart,
Fog dwindles your mind with mist left in the shadows,
Honesty is a mere concept with nowhere to start,
And when dreams are forsaken in pale meadows.
The discontent clothes and cradles you
With no intention of improvement as the light
Blackens without remorse and you try to eschew
Any dissatisfaction with only the fright
As your guide.
So glossy and bloomed on the outside,
Colored no less as bright as a beating sun.
From the warmth and comfort of light it opens wide
As if arms are bare to accepting what is done
No differently than what God had intended.
It gives beauty and sustenance to nature
Three seasons of the year, starting or ended,
And nothing was ever supplied in return.
A flower, so selfless it is, in such
A small package.
I am a despondent flower,
Showing my pearly pink petals
With spiders and bugs hiding behind.
I bloom in the glorious sun, though a nettle,
And becoming a shriveled bud you will spot
Me, not a significant or noteworthy thing;
Just simply a plastic carbon dioxide breather,
Provider, enlightening, petty on a ring,
Caregiver, selfless, hurting, and decaying
Kind of flower.