Flowers had once
blossomed
in this parched tongue.
They're wilted now,
and my eyes made
rivers for it.
No buds will come out
anymore,
I know,
but I'll water them still.
"May this water help you
to bloom again, flower."
I tell each of them every time
because I know
and I hope
they will bloom again.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poetry[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
