I bring my hand into
the depth of my pocket,
warm, maybe an
understatement
but it's alright.
There's a tiny posy
that's slightly crushed
slightly shrivelled,
probably from
bumping into people
but a posy nonetheless.
I'm not a plant person,
but when one crumbles
like a forgotten wonder
to nothing more
than bricks and tissue I
can't help but think
that there's a warped
looking glass between
us, so much so that
when I see the greyed
leaf loosely dematerialise
from the drooping posy,
ashes to ashes,
I fall down.
YOU ARE READING
Silence in the Walls
PoetryThis is for those who lost or found their voices. This is for those who could and could not breathe. This is for anyone who is stuck or escaped the dismal abyss of all-consuming emptiness. This is a reminder; a representation of the hardships we co...
