I cannot write, yet I write

of metaphors I always use.

The grotesque skull under my bed,

black and white—

comes out, spiralling,

bringing me muse

of light, darkness, brightness, and night.

 

A lone flower, among eerily happy flowers,

resents the haunting silence,

singing with sullen sorrow,

seeking eternal solace.

It waits, screams, yearns, and dreams

till the late hours.

Its stories of tangled absurdity,

confusion, and strangled peace—

fade in echoes beneath the giant mower.

 

It turns to its smiling mates:

“Despite the misfortunes the mower brings,

how does exuberance roam?

And the life still ring?”

 

The willow smirks.

The wallflower speaks:

“Sometimes the lingering petal holds on,

knowing too well the inevitability.

The vagaries of uncertainty

never dim its light,

for in that moment,

it thinks more of life than death

And fights, though draining, dimming and dying.