The flower blows in the air.
It blossoms, silent, pure.
Mountains erupting, ready to sin.
The calm before the storm is the only cure.
The valley becomes one,
While the sky eats the sun.
Nothing will stop its path.
Only the garden can stop it's wrath.
Only the wind can make this last.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 10:05 PM UTC
The flower blows in the air.
It blossoms, silent, pure.
Mountains erupting, ready to sin.
The calm before the storm is the only cure.
The valley becomes one,
While the sky eats the sun.
Nothing will stop its path.
Only the garden can stop it's wrath.
Only the wind can make this last.
Request permission to use this poem