Little flowers blossom,
cherished by the wild,
rare but also common,
designed to be alive.

Oh, but what harsh end they live to see,
delicately they shine,
inciting predators to kneel,
strip them from their sacred lands,
listen to their ending breaths,
rays of sunshine hit their bodies,
as they fall to death.

The cycle of a little flower.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem