flowers patterned her hair
weaving through strands
of thin and thick hair
pretty petals
vivid bursting colours
a sweet fragrance
misting around her
and just like the flowers
she'd be alive and thriving
beautiful and free
loved and cared for
for just a few more hours
and by morning
she'd be fragile and weak
slowly dying
crumbling to pieces
falling apart
petal by petal
no longer beautiful and carefree
and no one wants a dead flower
so they let her go
and bury her with the other dead flowers.
YOU ARE READING
breathe ⇒ poetry
Poeziealexithymia (ah-lek-sah-THI-mee-ah) - inability to describe emotions in a verbal manner. " the best poems are written in the early morning when all you can see is darkness and your eyes are filled with tears " [aesthetic poems, stories through p...
