Last Year's Flowers

Sunrise

At the wake of dawn,
The colors slowly fade onto the window.
The cruel sting of storms passed,
Casting a lighted shadow on her open wound.
The hesitancy in her eyes to look upon the appearing sun;
The trees are still, the birds hum gently.
The air is soft,
But too harsh for the despondency of her freshly pierced heart.
How the flowers' bloom was too still and lurid to gaze upon,
How the gentle noises were soft and sorrowful.
The song of creation inconsiderately carried on another morning...
But though her song was silenced as she despised the world for continuing to spin, it wouldn't alter the wait for her own sunrise.