The fragile flower,
Is dying this coming hour,
And the skies will shower,
The world with its tears-
Because everyone fears
The death of life
On such a quiet, moonlit night.
Darkness descends,
While we realize we all depend,
On some fraction of light
To remind us of reason.
Still, that is not what these tears say
On this sorrowful day.
I hear bells, I can solemly tell,
That lights dim the farther we go.
And even though I have always known,
That will do nothing to postpone
The death of a fragile flower
This coming hour
While the skies shower
Our haunted, lonely towers.
Thunder, we see, far out in the sea,
Shows us the reality of our dreams
Still, though, I hope
For dangling ropes that pull us up
From the deepest of holes
Because I hope for the broken
To be repaired
So we can grow a new flower
Someday, some hour
When the world will once again regain its power
To recover from the days of dark, to leave a mark
Of life, of beauty
Something that shows we truly have learned
From those dead flowers
That died those past hours
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of the Broken
PoesieThere are voices that cannot be drowned, and writings that cannot be burned. That is because they have found worse and have slowly learned. And this is true. From them, comes the Collection of the Broken.
