𝕴𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖕𝖎𝖉 | Poetry

Wilted 🥀

I adorned myself with a crown,
one of fallen petals.
They kept falling, and I kept picking,
until every last piece was gone.

Perhaps that is what I had done wrong,
picking up those fallen, crying pieces.
Hoping and wishing to revive the dead.

I had danced in the fiercest storms,
the winds had played my melody,
the petals still my crown.

I had sung through the pain,
my wounds had become
the esteemed subject of composition,
my voice never drowned out in the thunder.

Had I known it would turn insipid,
perhaps I wouldn't have done so at all.

Because the fallen petals had cried their last cry,
and so had my diadem.
They had drooped.

And once every glorious petal had wilted,
my heart's garden had wilted too.

~Sia ❤️