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In the hush beneath powerlines,
through fractured stones,
no gardener knelt to bless them.
No springtime choir sang.
Still, golden heads rose,
leaning towards the shadowed light,
the kind filtered by clouds
like a half-remembered memory,
or a lullaby hummed to a ghost.
Roots thread through ruin,
tasting rust,
sipping rain
that fell before the world began.
They were never meant to be here.
And yet
yellow ablaze in the rubble.
A flicker. A flare.
The petaled armor of hope
unfurled against battle-smoked skies
as if the world exhaled
and breathed them into being.
Life is here,
Then it's not,
One small portion of time,
It's all we've got.
You find things you like,
People too,
I found you.
No second chances,
No time to make up lost dances,
Or even a simple second,
To appreciate what you have.
I blinked,
Then October turned to spring,
Easter flowers came just in time this year,
I can only give them 86 more chances,
To reappear.
It's not enough
Elaine C Apr 30
when i die,
i refuse to be a nameless grave
marked by a chunk of stone
in the earth

when i die,
i want flowers to be planted
over where i lay
so new life may grow from me

when i die,
i wish to be neat and pretty
a contrast to how i've been in life
frenetic and disorganised

when i die,
will i be remembered?
or will memories of me fade too soon?
and i will turn to dust
we will all slowly turn to dust
i do not wish for my life to be meaningless while i live it but if i do nothing of meaning in life, maybe my death can be full of meaning.
Emery Feine Apr 30
Oh, April, you have taught me how to live again.
I’ve watched the magnolia tree outside my room
Slowly blossom in your presence
The heat of the sun
Like fireflies on my skin
Lighting up the day

Oh, April, you have taught me to love again
I’ve made a new friend
I have something to live for again
Something to love for
Though I’m young
Though we aren’t far apart in age
I want to protect him
Like a son
My son

Oh, April, I fear I had forgotten the delight of your presence
Raindrops flowering on the ground
Flowers raining down on me
I can love again; my heart has thawed
What am I, if not alive?
and i dont want to mess it up for once
Joss Lennox Apr 30
The petals last pulse under forgotten echoes of moonlit shadows,
remained in a lavender scented field, soulfully still

The breath of crushed velvet, paired with unnamed galaxies,
bespoke of amethyst daydreams

Woven into them were sighs of silky dust nights,
filled with scorched upheavals

Dancing orchids draped in full bloom,
stirred fiery rains, flowing within air of royal dusk moons

Wisteria hues,
too refined for eggplant plums & hominy hums

Iridescent irises & lilac leaves whispered between
blue lagoons cloaked in filtered rooms

Still, they stand between
midnight dreams & mystical realities
my shot at a longer poem using an impressionistic poetry style and today's WD PAD challenge, "write a color poem"
melon Apr 29
I did not fear death, not really—
but I feared the garden that never withers,
the bloom that outlives its meaning,
the stem that will not bow no matter how long the wind begs.

Somewhere in me, a root forgot how to decay.
The belladonna opened her mouth and never closed it again.
No bees. No dusk. No soft, collapsing fruit.
Only the poisoned blossom holding its pose like a dancer who cannot hear the ending note.

The others fell—
petals sighing into soil,
leaves tucking themselves into brown envelopes of forgetting—
but I stayed,
a stalk trembling with nothing left to say,
no more sun to drink, no shade to crave,
just this:
this unbearable continuity.

I fear not the grave, but the droughtless field.
I fear not rot, but the failure of rot.
The stillness where decomposition was meant to sing,
but the air refused its sacred burden.

The seeds inside me are not brave enough to die.
They turn in their shells endlessly,
gnawing against germination,
spinning their green myths in a loop too tight for history.

What if I never fall?
What if the wind skips me,
and I remain the lone yew unbent by any season?
No frost for my veins to crack beneath,
no harvest moon to call me done.

The ivy is patient,
but even ivy wants a stone to sleep on.
I have no such gift.
Only this always.
Only this flowering that won't collapse.
Only this sun that never has the grace to leave.

I beg the ground to remember me.
To take me the way it takes everything good.
But the dirt,
the sacred dirt,
passes over me like a skipped psalm,
and the roots around me forget how to die in my presence.

So I bloom,
again,
again,
again—
each time less real, less warm, more artifact than flower.
A specimen in an eternal spring.
A prayer with no god left to wither for.

And the belladonna does not blink.
And the petals refuse their final gesture.
And I remain—
not immortal,
but uninvited to the end.
04/29/25
Sudzedrebel Apr 29
If you don't wanna understand it, don't.
You're not held to comprehension.
If you don't want to agree, don't.
You're not held to a thing in discussion.
If you don't want to think, don't.
You're still liable for your actions.
If you don't want to speak, don't.
You're still liable for its consequences.

Personally? Don't have a fit,
I don't give a ****.
Smell the flowers!
Sometimes she gets mad when the crowd forgets her,
But then she remembers - even graves get flowers.
ellie Apr 26
A bouquet of flowers is a sweet gift,
peonies pink, roses red, orchids white.
Stems neatly trimmed, wrapped and delivered swift,
a sign of care, igniting new light.
But be wary of ill-fated decisions,
of carnations, tansies, roses – yellow.
Of clumped, wilted bundles, inner collisions.
A sign, that love will not be what you sow.
Maybe, instead, find the seedlings for you,
and remember every flower can grow.
Water, sunlight, and the will to stay true,
could be enough, to see them bloom and glow.
And while flower language loses voices,
remember your right – chase your good choices.
wrote this for my english homework heehee
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