The flower blooms with signs of hope.
Joy blinding sight from its thorns.
Whispering sweet promises within its roots,
budding blushing petals.

Built up from complements and time,
its walls ever harder to climb.
No tools in hand, no fuse to bind,
and yet it's crumbling, crushing under the weight.

What once was a muse has become a prison.
Hurling through the cement in vain.
Planted to the ground the flower remains,
for duty now reigns over pleasure.

It's thorns in full view,
petals no longer red have lost their hue.
The stem cracked and bruised.
My flower has wilted.

*It's waiting to die.