Our colors were bright at first.
As the sun shined on our faces,
Slowly, we broke through the ground that held us.
One species of you, and one of me.
We bloomed quickly in the fall,
Our roots were wound so tightly around one another,
Like a mother’s arm.
Yet, we never bloomed.
Instead, we quietly thirsted for the rain that never fell,
And we starved for the time we never seemed to give.
I have been left here, a propagation of one.
In this sullied vase,
Cut off and left to dry.
But alas, I am blooming now.
My color electric crimson,
This scent I carry is thick like pudding.
To which you will never smell again.
My lonesome stranger.