Father
My father is a flower, and he grows about without me. He grows from a different sun, and drinks from a different rain. All though we are under the same sky, he stands so far away. My father is a bird, one that fly’s on alone. His head in the clouds and his wings on the ground. I am a bird, flying close behind,
But I am made of the ocean and the stars, while he is filled with the grass and the trees. He is a promise, one that’s never kept, a world that’s drenched in colors, bleeding rain out of its hands, but has never learned to feel. My father is a flower, one that’s stems are turning grey. His petals are all people, who will one by one forget his name. But dear flower, I am a petal too, who is to grow beside the purple soil, and watch as he forgets of me. I have swallowed a bottle of sunlight, and sung to you all the songs of the rain, but still you don’t notice me, maybe I am still not bright enough, or my voice not loud enough. My father is a flower, one with the world inside his chest, one that’s thoughts claim to know of mine. But darling flower, reminisce in the words I speak, when they say that you don’t know a thing.
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