Narcissus at the window.
Hyacinth beneath the bed.
Anemones where the footsteps should be.
Every flower knows its own name.
Except the one
wearing somebody else's face.
Its roots keep reaching downward,
as though the earth might remember
what the mirror forgot.
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Author:
Nosotrez (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 25th, 2026 07:15
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 26
- Users favorite of this poem: delusions, A.N., 𑣲┆cursed ˚.⋆ֹ
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Comments1
Nicely written this poem of beauty speaks of reflected beauty or maybe stolen. Well done
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