My Flower
The flower was the color of blood.
Red as a thorny rose,
Withering away.
I can't protect the flower,
Even though I keep trying.
I lightly brush back my rumbled hair.
While the breeze caress my skin.
I look up to see,
Rows by rows of thorns surround the flower and I.
I scream though knowing no one or thing can hear.
The thorns call my name,
As does the flower.
They think I can decide,
But knowing I can't.
The thorns take me,
As I cry for the flower.
Water droplets roll off the flower,
As though it was crying also.
A pedal floats away from its owner to my hand,
Giving me part of him.
I hold the pedal tight to my chest.
Knowing I will always remember…
The flower,
My flower.