Grey,
The bouquet of flowers of whatever kind.
It hardly matters.
Each and every day,
You present to me
Fruitless remains of
Something potentially beautiful
Only for it to wither
In my trembling hands.
They're placed in a vase
On the coffee table.
It's the only thing there.
Helpless,
Craving the light,
Bathing in cool, tainted water.
Lying in the shadows of a distant light,
They dance,
Floating to the ground,
Showing their true form.
My wide eyes,
Captivated,
Suddenly fall to the floor.
Numerous are your visits.
Small are my eyes.
After all, you only bring me
Dead flowers.
About the Creator
Sean Martin
Just a college student trying to enjoy myself anyway I can. As a musician and songwriter, music is always on my mind. I'm also a big Japanese culture nerd and a huge fan of its music scene. Hope you enjoy!
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Hit the Ground Running: Living in the Shadows of Your Early Years
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