The little garden at the end of the street was torn,
It had been now for a few days.
And now, the care-taker of it sat at home,
Watching a nature documentary on TV.
She was tired
And so was the flower.
She no longer felt that same desire
And so the flower now had no power.
I watch as the woman stares blankly at the TV,
I watch as she ignores the dying garden outside.
I watch as the flower withers,
I watch as it hides.
The thorns once poked her once before,
The flower mourns.
Her devotion to the garden was lost,
And so the flower seeked out other curators,
Still missing her,
Still wanting her.
It begged her back.
But she did not.
YOU ARE READING
Bereikšmiški žodžiai(mano emo era.)
RandomJust a compilation of poems or short stories I've written in my free time or they didn't make the cut for a fanfic - mostly in Lithuanian. Slow updates. Not explaining any of this lolsz.
