Flowers wilt, even

if they are out of the sun --


and made of paper.

I wrote a poem, just for you,
Wrought out of pain and tears.
You took the pain, and wrote one too;
It multiplied our fears.

I wrote a poem, filled with joy,
And gave you that as well.
You wrote one too, and helped destroy
Our paranoia's spell.

I called you out with a song,
With tunes calling whom I long,
I could play this all day long,
To see you smile for life long.

the Sun is eating itself
voraciously self-consuming

and the Sun gives life
by the act of slowly dying.

Winter longer
Than any other season.
Crisp blue skies.
Wet days
To give way
To spring.
******* the old.
Who fear to never
See the promise.
Fertilize with patience.
Ready the field.
For green is waiting.

A forgotten flower,
once adored, now left to wilt,
lonely and unseen.

When your last days are here
all you will carry is what will  carry you too.
Your conscience.



Shell ✨🐚