They whisper in the wind,
sharp as broken glass, cutting unseen—
words like stones,
bruising the fragile stems of roses
still struggling to bloom.
In the garden of faces,
they walk past,
feet crushing petals
while pretending not to notice
the withering beneath their shoes.
Laughter fills the air, sweet as poison,
drowning out the cracks of fragile souls
splintering in silence.
Hands reach out to help—
but only to push further
from the sun, from the air,
from the light.
Roots rot beneath,
hidden in the soil of ignorance,
as the garden continues its parade,
masks of joy concealing the decay.
The crowd marches on.
Each step a weight,
each glance a bullet fired
into the unseen shadows
where the broken fall unnoticed.
No one sees the thorns
until they find them in the mirror,
long after the rose has crumbled
to dust.
But even dust goes unnoticed
in the wind of their apathy.
They call it a tragedy,
when the roses die,
their colors bled into the soil.
Yet no one remembers
the hand that held the stone
or the foot that pressed
the life from the bloom.
YOU ARE READING
Little Pieces
PoetryA collection of short poems that reflect the ups and downs of daily life, exploring themes of struggle, growth, and the search for belonging. Each piece reflects a moment, a feeling, or a memory, offering a glimpse into the journey of self-discovery.
