It was another one of those days,
Borne the brunt of by Autumn's embrace,
Cradled in a basket of flowers
I'd picked from meadows of bygone days.
I can still smell their pungent scents,
Feel their fragrances,
From when I'd first chanced upon them,
Yet to bear their first exchanges.
Between friends, foes, family.
Their innocence so livid
Their colors so vivid.
Yet here they are,
Beheld by eyes that lie,
For now they're withered, colourless,
Their once hued petals all awry,
With but a sign of life.
Those days are but a far cry
For now it's getting harder and harder
To fly.
Fly free, free as a bird,
Across the azure Summer skies.
I hold upon your lifeless tiny flowers,
Pale and forlorn.
Though for how long,
If you and your days
Are but all gone?
DKB.
YOU ARE READING
Nonchalance.
PoetryA collection of some stories of mine, written and meant to be read with, you guessed it, nonchalance. (Cover: The Road Not Taken, Arnaud Montagard)
