Written by: Kabya Oli - 29014, Grade VIII
Posted on: 22 May, 2024
The pale white flowers that you tear down,
Each petal torn from your hands, it's bound.
The sweetness of the poison, it follows me till death.
But the ruins of my face haunt my every breath.
The pureness of her soul; it tears me down whole.
And the flowers which bloomed in my smile
Get burned down to coals.
Oh! Those pale white flowers, they have no beauty compared to others.
The more you do to me, the more I die.
Your pretty face couldn’t compare to mine.
Your lips of red and skin of silk,
Which made me believe no part of you could wilt.
You’re just so perfect, each part of you is.
The red of my curtains doesn’t compare to your cheeks.
Your hands of silk are just filled with cotton.
While you pick those white flowers one by one.
Just by your softness they are torn.
But those pale whites that you hold,
You pick those up but then they mold.
The more the time,
The more the damage.
The ugly flowers couldn’t compare to you, could they?
