Amongst the golden, stands a purple flower.
Happy little violet petals, swaying in the breeze.
The galaxy of colors, mixing and morphing on a motionless painted canvas.
The flower stands taller than the others.
Proud, and happy.
It could care less for the dandelions, the small flowers down by the dirt.
It wasn't out of superiority, nor was it out of malice. Just out of indifference.
It had all the sunshine it needed. It would live forever.
Or so it believed.
Then it rains.
To the golden dandelions, close to the earth, the waters cleanse, the waters heal, the waters strengthen. The waters make them bright and joyful.
To the sunny yellow flowers, the rains were a welcome rejuvenation.
But the purple flower stands too tall.
The rain is heavy, and causes a fall.
And the purple flower falls to the ground.
Away where it shall never be found.
All that bright and wonderful beauty,
all the secrets of a star.
Every constellation told in a petal,
stories from afar.
Just to be covered in mud.
Covered in dirt.
To be buried, to be hurt.
A song never to be sung again, a story never told.
You could be a purple flower, if I may be so bold.
YOU ARE READING
Nights
عشوائيI want to scream. Here I am, its ten pm, I'm writing nonsense on a screen. is that poetry? or is that penalty?
