The Dead Flower
The Dead Flower
A girl stands in front of a door,
Her feet upon a clear marble floor.
In her hand, a flower—white and pure,
A symbol of peace, of that I am sure.
A yellow bed with soft white petals,
A heart of metal takes time to settle.
It longs for peace, with no more battle,
The white flower born from mud, a good storyteller.
It left its purpose, wished to stay,
But slowly faded far away.
Growing weaker day by day,
A fragile thing no one dared to say.
The soft white petals losing their charm,
They’re feeling within an inner alarm.
It gets no calming balm—
A dead flower rests within her palm.
This is what happens when you forget where your soul comes from.
You become blind and leave your purpose behind.
Nothing remains but an empty end,
A fragile death that world cannot mend.
Written by
Mishquat Fatima
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