I shall write things no one except myself can understand. Things that are elusive and escape the reader. The dots are only for me to connect — no one else.
These are the hopes and wishes of a dying flower. To rot in a field of beautiful green and dream of those blue skied days. The butterflies passed the flower over, forever searching for that sweet nectar of a distant rose.
Thorns and weeds about; there is a dark mood in this patch of land. For it is tainted and unable to be remended into that once beautiful garden.
These are the hopes and wishes of a dying flower. To plea to the grasses and shrubs around it to grant it shade from the cruel sun. Even that heavenly gaze is enough to burn its skin. Brown, powdery, dead.
Nothing is left, except a beetle’s haven…
