Do the flowers mourn when one is picked?
I know that question is kinda morbid and sick.
But I’ve always wondered if they somehow know,
Like for weddings and birthdays that it’s their time to go?

Do they feel sorry for lovestruck dames,
That pull off petals whilst saying their crushes’ names,
That pulled the last petal on “He loves me not”?
Do they feel bad that she’s distraught?

Do they compete on who’s the prettiest?
Each person has an opinion of which flower is the best,
Of their looks are they actually aware,
Do flowers even care?

Marching, Marching on.
That Broken Soldier
Unfix-able, Never to be intact again.
After to many years of fighting.

And yet still fighting,
That Broken Soldier.
Fighting the never ending fight.
Slowly falling, still, ever fighting.

But he is crumbling,
That Broken Soldier.
Falling apart by the day.
Left in an eternity of frailness.

Becoming less human everyday,
That Broken Soldier.
Solemnly stewing on his personal madness.
But that Soldier fights on.

Still fighting,
That Broken Soldier.
Fighting the never ending fight.
Slowly falling, still, ever fighting.

But his will wavers,
That Broken Soldier.
Is the fight worth fighting?
Worth the deathly blows thrown every day.

Soon none will be left,
of That Broken Soldier.
Soon the fight will be done.
Soon the last hurrah will sound.

The last Hurrah,
from That Broken Soldier.
Giving up the fight.
While letting go, his life.

For his life,
That Broken Solder,
Is his fight.
His fight soon lost.

But still fighting,
That Broken Soldier.
Fighting the ending fight.
Slowly falling, still, Not Ever Fighting.

Not Ever Fighting,
That Broken Soldier.
Not ever more.
The Fight is lost.
Lost is The Broken Soldier