The house plants that surround me are dying.
Day by day they go unattended in a room of darkness.
The moisture inside their stems,
once flourishing beneath the paint chipped window,
are now dried up upon the ground.
They created oxygen to cleanse the air,
but now are only being suffocated by smoke and dust.
The blossoms begin to recede.
Flowering is nonexistent.
The light was supposed to lead the way,
yet disappeared too soon.
Maybe one day they will bloom again,
showering the world in green.
For now they cry in lust for what they could be.
YOU ARE READING
The Mess Collective.
PoesieA small collection of poetry I've done over the years. (This is a work in progress. I've been closed off for most of my life, especially when it comes to my writing. But now that I am older I want to share and keep up my writing because it has alway...
