Roses, roses, roses bushes.
A bud on the top wanting to bloom.
But the rain doesn't come still.
Just a wind came.
Fluttering its greens.
Shaking its upright body.
Now calm down and breath.
We'll find a way.
Will let the dew come down.
Just like a jalousi of fresh.
It's a start.
You knew something's happening.
You feel it.
Like a pull, and it's restlessly calling you.
A river was near.
It's where every drop from the sky ended.
And the water streams somewhere.
Should the bud just fall down and follow?
Or should it wait for a drop for it blooming red, finally?
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Author:
ayatocka (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 5th, 2023 05:26
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: Bobby O, Rocky Lagou
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Comments2
Impatient but knowing.
Such a deep reflection, and your imagery truly encapsulates the poem in such an artistic and whimsical manner. Sometimes when we are in our prime, young and vigorous, is when we're most liable to self-destruction. Just look at Sylvia Plath, so young and so full of potential, but her depression got the best of her. Thanks for the poem.
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