The Flowers, They are Withering

The thing is, I don’t know how much time

I have wasted while waiting for the flowers to bloom.

I also don’t know how many nails I have bitten

to make the waiting becomes bearable

The feeling of depletion has not leaving my chest

ever since I got the desire to see the petals become brighter and livelier.

Yet the flowers still stiff and the day grows slower.

I was completely sure that

there is nothing I could do

to change the fate of those flowers,

But a glimpse of hope cracked my desire opened:

“What if the flowers only need sunlight?

What if they only need time to be whatever it should be?”

I almost feel bad for the flowers

Maybe I can pour something to make the flowers feel better

A handful of wishes perhaps

Or two drops of tears?

But my hands won’t even move an inch

They stiffen and sullen

Each has its own countless scars

Each refuses to take an effort

And I wept

Wept

As the numb feeling snatched away the hope for seeing the flowers to bloom

The hope, it withers

The flowers, they are withering

The thing is I am, also, withering

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