Those leaves, once soft, cursed to spikes,
every soul that came close bled red.
Stoic armor for survival but
thirst unquenched burning brighter
hollowed by endurance my existence;
Cradling water yet never sip
Rarely blooms in hostility—
a sand-rooted sentry now lost,
Its silken self, at last .
Nov 5, 2025
Nov 5, 2025 at 10:57 AM UTC
Those leaves, once soft, cursed to spikes,
every soul that came close bled red.
Stoic armor for survival but
thirst unquenched burning brighter
hollowed by endurance my existence;
Cradling water yet never sip
Rarely blooms in hostility—
a sand-rooted sentry now lost,
Its silken self, at last .