Petals fall around upon a hazel ground, the blackened sky lit up with millions upon millions of speckled candles, all going out as time flows by. People come and go, each one passing by to look at such a beautiful sight. Footsteps melt into the ground telling a tale with every single one.
Droplets of water fall, colliding with the petals falling through gravity as a slow pace. They crash and bang, falling faster upon the hazel below. Moonlight shines on such a sight, radiant with its light, illuminating such a amorphous sight. The branches creak and snap around, crying in moarseless pain as claws break off its battered skin and birds fly away, through the tunnel of petals that effortlessly.
All along a bleak, hazel canvas lies a evanescent painting coloured by pink spots, white and black feathers and linings of red, blue and purple from the other flowers that encompass this sight. No longer a barren canvas but a painting that soothes the soul of those who watch with hollow eyes that pierce through and see its inner beauty.
Yet the painting slowly fades away, like the surprise after receiving a ineffable gift disappearing in realisation of the fact that it’s just another object yet to be forgotten. The painting slowly dies as it breathes in the poison and filth of the fetid, polluted air that ghost around its trunk, taunting and laughing at it.
The petals fall not out of will but because it’s their fate, the pollution repulsive that they could no longer bare the suffering brought upon them by those who watch with careless eyes. They see its beauty and yet do not lift a finger to change its fate, it’s as if all has begotten this painting as it seeps down the hazel canvas and fades into black.
The branches have become dull and grey, barren and desolate. It has been laid bare with its lithe figure broken down, now without colour. The painting is gone, the dream is dead and all that watch on only see another simple tree gone and dead.
There are millions of trees which carry its beauty they all think, one is nothing compared out of a number so high. All of them are fools for if you do not treasure one such thing then soon all will fade into black and leave the canvas grey. The beauty is slowly sucked dry and soon all will disappear in this poison we let them breathe.
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Of Monsters and Men: A Poetry, Short Story and Song Anthology
PoesieOf Monsters and Men is something I've been writing for a good four years, in those four years I suffered from severe depression and strong suicidal thoughts and dealt with it by writing these poems which were deemed very raw and very personal. I th...
