We all know this feeling
upon certain loss.
Our essence, our vitality
vanishes as wood does
upon the death of the fire
that burnt it before.

We become hollow,
Doubting any substance remains
within our closest, tired caverns.
What's unleashed can't be physically seen
and yet it trivializes
the most gruesome of bloodbaths.

At times--even all times--
we wish we would bleed
rather than cry
so our hearts could donate what we lost
to the dry, coarse dirt.

But don't wither yourselves so,
for none should crack
with the frailty of a shell.
The roots may be ripped,
yet the seed may still be planted.
And with no sunshine,
a sunshine we begin shunning,
the rain of our tears can never cease
to allow our true pedals to finally blossom.