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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Dark · #2220740
A telling of the time that was a song.
There was a time,

That was a song.

The song was alone,

A tortured soul.


The flowers wept

Alongside her head.

The sky fell,

And came up again.


Darkness swept

Her vision then.

A boy stood

Over her head.


"Tell me, girl,"

He said with a grin.

"How do you make the flowers weep?"

"The sky falls at your command."


The girl looked sadly upon her bed,

A whisper as tender as her heart.

"I am no queen. They love me so. They weep with me."

The boy grinned more.


"Alas, girl, flowers die,"

"Such as the one I gaze upon."

The song, that was a girl,

Lifted her aching head.


With sorrowful eyes,

She touched his soul.

He need not make the flower fair.

He needed her, with despair.


Instead, he tore off her thorns.

One by one, as her eyes bled.

"When you weep, you weep for me."

Was his everlasting song.


Trapped within his arms,

The song was now a flower.

Withering ever so slowly,

Yet she knew she wasn't dying.

© Copyright 2020 Rosalyn Wilde (rosalynwilde at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2220740-The-song-of-time