The sky is
A graveyard of stars
And I remark
Something so tragically beautiful
Just like fireworks of art
From here to the nearest star
And I wish
I could lay awake
In the night
And our lingering hearts
And tell you all about a tragedy
Do the flowers mourn when one is picked?
I know that question is kinda morbid and sick.
But I’ve always wondered if they somehow know,
Like for weddings and birthdays that it’s their time to go?
Do they feel sorry for lovestruck dames,
That pull off petals whilst saying their crushes’ names,
That pulled the last petal on “He loves me not”?
Do they feel bad that she’s distraught?
Do they compete on who’s the prettiest?
Each person has an opinion of which flower is the best,
Of their looks are they actually aware,
Do flowers even care?
Carried on the wings of a bird too frail to have left the nest
you fell to the roots of a grand maple that was clinging to a thread.
As it collapsed, branches and leaves falling, you exclaimed,
"I, too, rise above the world around me, reaching such heights."
But you failed to notice that it was just the world falling apart.
And like the bird that bore you, you, too, will not survive the frost.
— The End —