This is a flower
that bloomed in fire,
its petals not fragrant,
but final.
No vase,
no grave,
no last goodbye.
Only footsteps now,
hurrying past what once screamed.
Only silence,
remembering louder than war.
Kneel,
and the city will tell you
what it costs
to keep blooming.
This post is part of the “Imperfect Light” series – you can read the introduction here.
Monday Made Me Do It 