Poetry

flowers

i shall await,
for these flowers to be burnt
muster up the remains,
remain the calm.
isolate reasoning,
question the very beginning.
welled up flowers,
i wouldn’t dare feel it
but will admire
saying:
there was a creation
i couldn’t see
but is still with me.
integrating my soul with red ashes,
but i have to see through the end,
till the fervour withdraws,
until i can’t feel the wind.
and i shall await,
for these flowers to bleed,
defining my black to its deed,
blue it lay beside,
craved inside me.
yet, i despise those flowers,
detest every bit,
its ignoble genesis.
with that,
i will ash myself with those flowers.
engraving within me.
they who wait for the flowers,
couldn’t even breathe,
but i shall await,
with fear
for these flowers to be burnt.

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