Saturday, September 12, 2009

It sits ablush in morning glory.
A small little thing, a short new story.
Too small, insignificant. It doesn't matter.
But oh, too small, give it some water.
The stem, pale green, bows to the ground.
It's too young and weak to lift it's crown.
It is too small, it will die soon.
It won't be around to even meet the moon.
No one will remember it when it's gone.
It leaves only its leaves to mourn.
The grass, the leaves, the bowed down stem.
It was special all alone, and alone to them.


  1. Nice.
    Morbid, of course, hence more in my line, but, nevertheless, nice.

  2. Well, I wasn't going to go Byron and write about how pretty the flower was. Nobody cares about how pretty the flower was. Well, I don't. What would be the point in writing something so obvious and pointless, not to mention dead?
    Plus, I wrote it in my eco. textbook. Clears things, doesn't it?

  3. The flower is not dead...

  4. ooooo... maybe it'll live .. so now u'r givin derry some compet...n i'm givin lamb a run for his money...:)

  5. I wrote this in September. Right now we are in November. That gives it two months. It has GOT to be dead by now!!! The impracticality of the optimists!


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