Despondent flower


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.


A flower;

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.


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