Our love is like a field of flowers.
Colorful,
unique,
exquisite.
Each flower is different,
each flower represents a piece of our love.
A piece of us.
Florescent pinks and mysterious blues blended with other hues cover across the field and up the hilltops.
It is truly a magnificent sight.
We picked the flowers together and made beautiful bouquets. The sublime saturation's mixed together so perfectly that even the most heartless would shed a tear.
We traced our fingers across each other's skin,
leaving an arrangement of pigments on our skin and flower petals in our hair.
We laughed.
We smiled.
We loved
We picked our flowers and made bouquets.
Until suddenly there were no more.
All that was left was an empty field.
Tattered and torn apart.
Scarred from where the flowers used to be.
So we grasped on to our bouquets of flowers and held them close to our hearts.
However, what we did not realize was that the flowers had thorns,
Each one pricking our skin.
As blood trickled down to our fingertips,
It washed away all of the hues,
As well as our love.
We were left with nothing but cuts on our wrists and lightless eyes.
The tears we cried, came down like a treacherous hurricane and flooded our once beautiful land.
Our love was once art.
Now if lays in ruins at our feet.
~madelyn
YOU ARE READING
Colorful Silence
PoesiaStories of a quiet girl, with a loud mind. All of these pieces are mine so please give me credit if you decide to quote part of it. These stories mean a lot to me and I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them! This d...
