She danced graciously all spring.
Flaunted her brightly coloured petals in the season; with a body the hue of red and green for a ribbon that adorned her waist, a beauty to behold she was...
Little did she know;he watched her.
The cold hands of winter lurked in the shadows of season.
For he knew his time was near...
And therein came the monster, with a perilous end planned just for her. Cold hands stilled her movements, stripped off her colours; left her a withered mess.
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I'm honestly not satisfied with this piece. I wrote this a couple of days back, and I think it's not good enough.
I decided to post it because I learned something worthwhile... NOT TO POST YOUR SUCCESS ALONE, BUT YOUR FAILURE AS WELL. This isn't my success, but it's one of the worst pieces I have. So, this is me embracing even my worst times wholeheartedly.
Have a beautiful weekend 🙏❤️
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YOU ARE READING
'Silent' Clouds.
Poetry¶Words have no meaning, unless you make them, turning them into a spontaneous overflow of rhythm¶ ¶A string of broken pieces interwoven into into poetry. Broken symphonies, turned into poetry¶
