Flower pedals are pressed...
Flower pedals are pressed
between a book's pages
like thumbs cradling them.
We breathe out,
close our eyes,
as they bleed tones,
pastel into woven sheets.
They too are forgotten;
we too are relics
living in books afterward.
People pluck pedals
to remember with wistfulness
the finality of blossoming.
like thumbs cradling them.
We breathe out,
close our eyes,
as they bleed tones,
pastel into woven sheets.
They too are forgotten;
we too are relics
living in books afterward.
People pluck pedals
to remember with wistfulness
the finality of blossoming.
Labels: poetry

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