Aeoniums
The aeoniums, after much care, still do not grow,
His plight is of that, oh, how he cares for the flowers,
Though I believe he does not know.
His care for every and all,
Will result in his fall,
To the void, the pit, where only regret thrives,
Where the walls that prevent us from understanding each other shall grow tall.
If I was to regret a thing I had done,
It would be the crushing of those syringas,
So that I may live, unchained by the pressure of others,
So that I could breathe freely from my lungs,
I understand, it was necessary, so I mustn't feel remorse.
But his aeoniums, they still remain,
He preserves them, in the hopes that they will bloom once more,
Though in my mind, it is clear.
They have lived far too long to bloom a second time,
If he does not let go soon, he will miss his own life.
Copyright © Tara Webster | Year Posted 2026
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