painting flowers in the mud
if you think about it,
it isn’t that hard
it all starts with dirt, a little water
and nature has her own way
nothing’s meant to fade away
just a little change of phase
despite the pain that comes
with every natural ending
tears dry, sometimes
oh, how even these things are timed
withered flowers clutter the pages
cold, flat and discolored
from the very first sight
they all look the same
behind white sheets and spotlight
their shadows differ not
by tomorrow, pulverized
helpless flowers trampled on in the wild
by the wild things that know not
at times, just left—ignored
lovely just the same
morning dew on the petals
to brighten up the day
above the carpeted clay
seeking the warmth of a distant sun
screams in silence—beauty stands
flowers on the table
centerpiece, masterpiece
captured in a painting, hung on a wall
blossoming in melodies
flowing in scented streams
of a pretty cruel world
if you think about it,
it really isn’t that hard
painting flowers in the mud
Evelyn Dumag-Gabinete
This is the #potd #poem of the day.
I would love to write a poem for you. See how.
see me at The Prose
Just Evelyn 