Flowers do not bloom within her.
Seeds do not sprout
And the only roots she sees are her own,
Withering with age and leaving her to find her way alone.
This temple sees only weather,
Torrential abuse because it doesn't do its job
It fails
To produce
Anything.
Nothing.
Every passing week is simply another reminder that
At the end of the road
There will be no semblance of immortality,
The end of the road will be just that.
The end of her,
Her name,
Her grief.
Gardens bloom around her,
But the willow weeps and dries up.
She may keep her sleep,
But that's all she'll have at the end of the day.
Nov 29, 2020
Nov 29, 2020 at 5:42 PM UTC
Flowers do not bloom within her.
Seeds do not sprout
And the only roots she sees are her own,
Withering with age and leaving her to find her way alone.
This temple sees only weather,
Torrential abuse because it doesn't do its job
It fails
To produce
Anything.
Nothing.
Every passing week is simply another reminder that
At the end of the road
There will be no semblance of immortality,
The end of the road will be just that.
The end of her,
Her name,
Her grief.
Gardens bloom around her,
But the willow weeps and dries up.
She may keep her sleep,
But that's all she'll have at the end of the day.