Yellow Flower

Photo by

Anna Crowel, Writer

Delicate and soft.

After a long hard winter.

Begging for the warmth of the sun.

On its pastel petals.

But atlas,

there’s no one to smell the aroma.

That flourishes in the air.

Stuck inside.

Praying the contaminated air,

will not cause them to cease,

and die among the flower,

but too early. 

In springtime.

Where everything and one.

Becomes alive again.

But we’re all just dying.

Picking the fake petals.

Of does he love me not.

Fighting and praying to god.

Who i shall pray listen,

to my cries of the solemn praise.

Promising myself i will get up,

but we will all wilt.


but surely. 

The only thing left remaining.

Is the yellow flower.

Driving around with my father.

And everytime we would see the beautiful color.

We would shout it for all to hear.

But these recent days, weeks, and months.

Have all been whispers.

Quiet and depressing.

Yellow flower.

Finally, I say goodbye to the hour.

And I’m done with my cower. 

And the sweet scent turns sour. 

Under the bower;

of the trees,

with yellow blossoms.