There is something quiet
in the way
the flowers bloom
against the gray,
among abandoned doorways
and forgotten walls,
as if they belong there—
their softness brushes
against decay,
like a secret
they aren’t trying to keep.

You stand still,
and time slows.
Nothing moves but a subtle drift,
nothing speaks
but the quiet cascade of petals—
growing where they shouldn’t,
thriving where the world
has grown tired.

It’s almost enough
to make you believe
in something—
a small kind of hope
that hides itself
in unexpected places,
waiting to be noticed.