Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Poem: Childish Games - Thirteen of 30 NaPoWriMo

Touch not the faded flower;
Her tender petals waiver,
Bruised by breezes once
Weathered without circumstance
Now withered edges curl, burned
In sunshine, no longer her delight
Leaves lacking moisture, once
Plump face has lost her luster
She stands; without a friend,
Holds dearly to the garden path
Singing while each falls:

"He loves me; he loves me not

(c) 13 April 2015

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