In abandoned halls and twisted hallways;

in the darkened light of a broken chandelier;

in the subtlety and in the shadows;

in the warmth and light that ceased to be,

the wallflowers bloom.

 

In their silent, beautiful way;

in their elegant, broken way;

in their only, only, lonely way,

the wallflowers bloom.

 

In a sense they know not who they are;

in a sense they know not where they come from;

in a sense they seek no love or joy; and yet,

the wallflowers bloom.

 

They live on light;

they live on warmth;

they live on love;

they live on themselves.

 

They live to see the day

the wallflowers bloom.

 

Briar flowers stand tall;

higher flowers stand taller;

brighter flowers cease to be so when

the wallflowers bloom.

 

The others wilt after a day;

their petals curl in pain and lust for life;

They fall to the Earth which they know so well;

but downward casting is their natural course when

the wallflowers bloom.

 

No lust for pride;

no cry for love;

only silence rings through the halls when

the wallflowers bloom.

 

No one sees;

no one feels;

no one knows

the wallflowers bloom.