A flower bending in the breeze,
Gently swaying in the wind,
A meadow of flowers,
Simply trying to fit in.
A conformity of colors,
None standing above the rest,
For the ones that do are ripped
From their life source.
Murdering beauty,
Destroying creation,
Monotony.
To stand above is to
Meet an end.
And yet those special flowers,
Torn apart to create anew,
Forgotten in time,
Are cherished shortly for
The emotions produced
Until cast aside for
It is no different than
Any flower in the
Meadow.
YOU ARE READING
To Define Odyssey
PoesiaPoetry, the beautiful child of rhythm and words with a dash of emotion to produce a melody the heart yearns to sing.
