~•~
The flowers dont die,
It's just the wind that blows by,
Just the scorching sun that withers the faith away
Just the drops of snow upon the leaves
That leaves them soulless to the brink of death
Just the empty creases amongst the wet soil bed
That leaves it dry agape.
Not of epiphanies now,
But of euphorias,
Is what encloses them,
To breathe free of pitiful lies,
That carve themselves upon fate,
Perhaps just their withering nature to be blamed—
To be withered by the parching air that blew
For amidst the dusky desert sand it lied,
Not thorns but petals as a ploy.
For amidst the snow covered tips it sat rooted,
With a hope to not die.
And here the faults lie,
Within them,
Choking them like a snake its prey,
Guilt—the inky word that now lay,
Forever,
Carving upon the soul that stays—
With a ploy remaining there to make them astray.
~•~
YOU ARE READING
Serenade✔
Poetry"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all. " ~Oscar Wilde __________________________________ ✔You stay under the carpet of my room, Dusting the corners of my soul✔ __________________________________...
