The sprout was lush and delicate,
A curved cane minuscule upon the ground with delight,
Vibrant its colour glows,
Straight its curve grows,
Lengthening in sun,
Wizened by rains others shun,
Tall and thick its stalk becomes,
A bud atop as an heirloom,
Soon the green softens and fiery petals fold out of their tomb,
Blazing and young,
Solid and stern but fun,
Waving comfortingly in the sunlight,
A playful bloom.
Through storm and fair day, even through gloom,
The petals never die until the first flake of winter permits its own self on a leaf,
A cursed ring of the cold seizes the plant as a disease,
Brown and bent it turns,
Rimmed with death it now learns,
As the flower of fire fades from Earth,
As the sun grows pale,
It knows death is the only way to provide more life.
YOU ARE READING
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Poetry***WARNING- Extreme gore, violence, and suggestive themes*** Poetry, of course, but this is my style my way. Don't like it? I really do not care. This expresses some of my deepest thoughts which I have never said nor written down before. If you do r...
