She holds the flower in her hands
Afraid to let it go,
Little does she know
all flowers,
whether it be blossomed,
or a young bud,
withers once plucked from its core
it doesn’t choose to refuse life,
but does it without a single choice or vice
fed rays and nurtured from earth without any price
but to stick to the click,
know your place,
erase the face,
separate the beliefs and the race,
after the complications,
deciding who’s fox, who’s rabbit
it all simply becomes what’s force of habit.
She holds the flower in her hands
Ready to let it go,
Fully does she know,
All flowers,
Blossomed,
Or
Young,
Will rot from depression,
Unsure what to do it with itself
It dies from a life that suddenly lacks tension.
Author notes
wrote this for a contest, too long, so i decided to just post it.
flower portrays any given life. simplified.
Comments
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This poem seriously gives me chills. The way you worded the last line of the middle stanza and especially the last line of the final stanza is mind-blowing.
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i absolutely love the first verse and the way it makes a complete circle in last verse...i dont think its too long at all really. seems just right. but i love the simplicity of it!
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Hey Sam
This is good, shows a process of a lemon nation. Some things ripen off the vine. In my religion we cannot bring cut flowers to a cemetery, only plants, and they die there as well. There is a reason but it escapes me.
I think, or at least feel, that the girl in this is central to this poem, you mentioned her in the very first line of the first verse and the first line of the closing verse.
Good poem, a lot of quiet pathos going on here!
John
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