All My Flowers Are Gone Essay, Research Paper

all my flowers are gone,

to pools of faded colours.

lost in seas of ripples

each time I reach to touch.

all my flowers are withered,

dying,

void of guidance.

not like the weed,

growing in spite of it all,

because of it all.

so I lay,

withered and dying.

waiting

for that promised day

when it all falls into place.

when I fleetingly stir

from beneath my rock

to reap

what?s at my feet:

second hand,

misshapen,

bruised fruit.

it?s not mine,

but its not too bad.

this new flower is rich and clear.

though it?s not my colour.

and I?m not dried anymore.

and I?m not the weed:

unwanted,

controlled,

contained,

crippled.

it?s not mine,

but I?m free.

free to take what?s given.

free to wither

when it?s not as it seems.

it?s not my colour .

I choose it to fade.

I toss it to the pool.

this pool I?ve been lead to,

to drink,

to drown.

this pool before me,

inescapable from my

lazy

still

gaze.

the weed is here,

but I?d have to move to see it,

and the pool isn?t too bad,

laid out at my feet.

now I see it all,

and now I see the drain.

do I reach for it?

reach past the ripples,

past the pool,

to the plug

at the end?

no.

it?s not the plug.

I?m not sure

it?s the plug.

I?m sure it?s the weed,

distracting

my flower inside