The petals of the dead
.
.
.
Caught under the dried ground
The tired bud unfurls and climbs,
A slow decent towards the pale glow
The fading promise of light.
Twisting, bending, and shifting through the soil,
Leaping towards the stray droplets in hunger,
Undeterred by the shaking and rumbling ground.
The bud peeked through the soil
As the warriors marched.
The sun drenched the cold land in flames,
Illuminating the shadows in the dark,
The tiny bud quivered as it unfurled it’s petals,
A pale yellow, a spot of color,
In a land unmarked.
It shook with fear,
A stranger in an unknown land,
As entire armies passed before it.
Swords and steel clanged in a glorious disharmony,
The song of the dead.
The tiny bud continued bloom,
Determined yet unwanted.
No one to water it,
No one to care for it,
The bud bloomed on it’s own.
It watched from atop it’s stem,
Hungry to grow.
Upon the harsh battlefield
It sought its own nourishment,
For what matters the war of men
To the forests and species old and ancient?
It faced the harsh winds alone,
The yellow seedling,
Its only friend the sun and its pale glow,
The warriors bathed the bud in red,
A pale substitute for its thirst,
For the rich blue that it wanted.
War and worship
Ravaged lands and claimed all that remained,
Proud forests laid barren
Under the clouded hand of anger and pride,
A judgement laid down by oppressors unnamed.
Dust settled and the bud gazed solemnly
Even as the spirits lingered,
An entire existence spent on waging wars
And an afterlife spent on a search,
A haunting quest to find peace,
Something unheard of on Earth.
The sunflower shook open its magnificent petals
A mane of vibrant yellow
And gazed fondly at its closest friend,
The sun shimmering in a steady glow.
Friends and foe alike lay covering the land
As the remaining walked away,
The soil would soon claim all even as roots would grow within,
The very land they fought over,
Would claim them soul and skin.
