The one with the Dead Flower

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All its life it was tortured

Stomped on, covered, abandoned.

Alone in the midst of winter it sprouted.

When everything else was dead, it came to life.

 

Protected by the solidarity.

Sharing the peace with only the wind and chill.

It grew in security, full of determination and will.

Residing at the top of the trampled hill.

 

Springtime came.

Exposed to the beasts who wanted it dead.

But it grew with the love of the kiss of a small boys head.

He curled himself around it to protect it

It became color.

 

Changing with only his emotions,

Loving only the boy.

Growing over him to keep him warm

He grew and his emotions turned to scorn.

 

With each tear he cried,

Word he yelled and bridge he burned,

A petal slowly fell

Weeping softly for the fate it knew so well.

 

Eventually her boy stood

Stretching towards the sun for his kiss,

She found instead a flower with a stem of wood.

He swung, he broke her when he promised he never would.

 

The boy sprinted down the hill

Crying.

Her last petal followed his tears.

Dying.

His tears brought life to his flowers fears. 

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