Somewhere between
Disorder and Longing,
Lives a man that collects flowers.
From near and far,
He ventures toward
A reclusive beauty that
Floods fields
Of happiness,
And paints yellow skies.
Seasons change,
Petals fall,
But his passion fuels
A fire dimming
Within his chest.
The nostalgia
In his eyes
Parallel a love
That is fleeting.
An emptiness,
That can only be
Filled with flowers
He once found
Within her heart.
It makes me wonder,
How I could envy
The soul destructive enough
To fill this vessel
Of sadness.
As seasons pass,
He saves them
For a spirit that
Ceases to return.
But I remain absent,
Because he is saving
Flowers for the dead
And I am only living.
Because he will
Always wait for
A muse
Unworthy of flowers.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 12:21 AM UTC
Somewhere between
Disorder and Longing,
Lives a man that collects flowers.
From near and far,
He ventures toward
A reclusive beauty that
Floods fields
Of happiness,
And paints yellow skies.
Seasons change,
Petals fall,
But his passion fuels
A fire dimming
Within his chest.
The nostalgia
In his eyes
Parallel a love
That is fleeting.
An emptiness,
That can only be
Filled with flowers
He once found
Within her heart.
It makes me wonder,
How I could envy
The soul destructive enough
To fill this vessel
Of sadness.
As seasons pass,
He saves them
For a spirit that
Ceases to return.
But I remain absent,
Because he is saving
Flowers for the dead
And I am only living.
Because he will
Always wait for
A muse
Unworthy of flowers.
