The flower wilts,
Tired, sad, dead.
With the scorching sun and it's burning blaze,
You cry.
It's white hair of age has seen it all,
but it never expected that it's own petals would fall.
They fall surrounding the burning ground,
Once was it fluffy and luscious green,
Once had it fulfilled every flower's dream.
Once did it hold events where teenagers would lay,
Where children would play,
Where kites were thrown into the sky.
Once did the flower wish it were a dream.
A wish for a world that wasn't so catastrophically destroyed.
