Change is inevitable.
Oh how she could have evaded
the kisses you have planted
on the soil of her skin.
"Water me,"
she asked and waited,
as flowers wilted around her frame,
a garden of grim.
Four falls passed,
an eco-system to adapt,
for she rained and she rayed,
for a garden, fond of the placid.
Oh she was a forest,
but just a garden she saw,
you admired her flowers
and tied it to a string.
The bouquet you made,
of her peonies and petunias,
the bits of her you plucked,
only for your own regard.
The parts of me you have messed with,
grew gloomy but shall never wilt,
for another fall shall pass,
and a garden of placid I shall fulfill.
© 2015 Izzah Batrisyia
