Bright eyes, a glance around me,
And like dead leaves crumble,
Beneath heavy feet,
We’ve also fallen hard.
Strange since I wonder,
While I ponder,
A weary poem of petals and flowers.
That seem to be withering early,
But surely,
A reason will hit me,
Sooner rather than later,
As to why in my hands,
I’m choking a rose that’s bloomed,
Too soon in spring,
To live out a life and flourish,
Until summer.
Maybe I’ll plant a garden,
Harvest some life and colour.
Next to one another,
A row of snow drops and blue bells,
That are ringing and singing,
For my ears only.
What a travesty when it ends,
And the flowers bend,
Down to the ground,
Dead,
On a bed of brown.
But I’ll ride it like a wave,
And I know I’ll have saved,
Somewhere,
The reason behind this mockery.