Fault of the Flower

Would it pain
She asks
Knowing all too well that it would
But I said No
As if saying thus shall make it so
And watched
Drifting in the lap of the night
Horror’s hand take hold
And smother
The last filaments
Those final particles
Ruminated remnants
Hers and my own
Settle on the dying petals
Of the flower we painted
But forgot to plant
If only we had not been
Part myopic, part colourblind
There would have been gardens to tend
New flowers to sow
Some fragrance to find

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Author: TheHumanAnvil

I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.

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