For some reason, I woke up in a rather poetic mood, and this rough poem is the product of that mood.
I stopped believing.
I no longer want to pin hopes up
like fake butterflies in a glass case.
If out of your arms lies nothing,
I will walk into nothing.
Love is not a savior.
All your strength lies tucked within you,
a sleeping animal to be awakened.
I plucked out every petal of every flower
for a wish that would never come true,
a prayer that would never be answered.
Such a large bruise cannot be healed
with a single breath, with a sigh of hope
and the promise of something better.
Promises are empty.
Words pile up like haystacks,
weightless and insubstantial.
You move down a line of flowers.
Roses, lilies, daffodils, pansies —
all identical in your eyes.
They wilt in your hands,
petals crumple under the weight
of a crushing thumb
that will yield a bruise,
an empty promise.
A wish that will fade in time.
For some reason, I always write poems with a lot of flower imagery. Not sure why. Maybe because a flower is an innately poetic thing, or at least that’s how it is to me.