Withered Hope




A fragile flower
Sits on a window sill.
It's starting to droop at the corners
From an absence of light.

Once standing tall,
Now sags a little.
Once a brilliant color,
Now very pale.

Siting on the window sill
It watches the rain drops fall.
They are always falling...
Never to stop...

The flower is alive in appearance,
But is dead in spirit.
While trying to hold onto its mask
It finally loses the battle.

In its final hour
It shrinks away.
Now crimpled
It withers brown

Onion


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