Thorn
Withered flowers.
Torn from the garden, left neglected in a vase.
Dead petals, putrid smell.
A life under the sun cut short.
An expression of beauty modified
To suit an angle of a room.
Is that the best you can do?
Dying flowers. Silent cries for help.
Silent reproaches from the air
From someone who's been there
Who's seen the flowers grow
Someone who cares,
Not just putting up a show.
Flowers of anger and mistrust.
Flowers of remembrance and dust.
Cold pain and revenge served as a wreath
On her grave. In the waters of the river
Where all flowers float
Death by water
Written in the liquid tranquillity
Because sooner or later it's all gone.
All gone to the sea.
Two coins over her eyelids.
Old legends.
It's time.
And the garden cries in anger.
And the flowers grow no more.
Nothing is as beautiful as before.
Barbed wire mixed with police tapes
And the wailing horn...
A lone wolf come to smell the flowers
From a distance.
And an ugly, threatening thorn.
Posted by Biljana P
