It had deviated a plan....
A seed, which would feed--from the nurture of the earth. Spurting it's joy and roots of gold amongst the turf.
It was heaven.
Though, in a blink of the eye, rain had become tears and the crisp brown had become mud. It's seed resisting from the freshness of the bud.
It was pain
Seasons passing,time becoming a weight, and the bond of everlasting love construes its mean and twists to hate.
It
Was
Anger.
No longer wanting to feel, it had become buried within the ground of skeletons of the past. Cover forever withers and the growth of repair doesn't last.
It was
D.E.P.R.E.S.S.I.O.N.
Mother Nature, insects, and animals which would pass it by, would ask and question why. Though it laid. Seeing, but unseeing. Hearing, but not heard.
It was caged.
Then, the sun would pass through the clouds and radiate heat.
The seed wound flinch in its wake.
A flower in its place it take.
It was withered.
YOU ARE READING
P.O.E.T.R.Y
PoetryPo•et•ry /poh-i-tree/ noun 1. the art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts. 2. literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ide...
