Doom of Bloom

A little poem about a flower

Doom of Bloom

I held a flower in my hand,
So soft, so full of grace.
It bloomed despite the barren land,
A light in darkest place.

I sang to it in quiet hours,
Its petals kissed my skin.
No thorn could guard it from the showers,
Or storms that crept within.

I begged the skies to spare my rose,
To let it see the spring.
But time, relentless, only knows
What loss and silence bring.

Its color paled, its fragrance fled,
I wept and shouted out the same.
And all around, the garden bled,
But none would speak its name.

Now like a moth without a flame,
I flutter far and wide.
The hue is gone, yet in my pain,
I feel it still inside.

And so I pray through ash and rain,
With hands worn down and sore:
Dear God, if flowers bloom again—
Let mine grow once more.