It wasn’t the way the flower died—
the crisp sound when something fell;
the slender stalk usually bends
when harsh winds come
but one time, it saw an end;
maybe because madness can only go as far
before one loses itself in the process,
thus creating an alternate reality
where the sun sleeps when it rises
and the moon darkens when the stars are awake.
I wish the nightingale never stopped singing
even when the sparrows muffled its voice;
I saw it one night waiting, nonchalantly,
perched on its spot in an old tree, staring,
too tired to even bother singing my song.
Everything vanishes at some point
or be transformed into something else;
and now I watch the final tears of a candle,
its smoke quickly escaping into thin air
as the light flickers from the used-up wick.
Finally, the moment came
when even the slightest whisper
will extinguish the flame.
This is the #potd poem of the day.