One little flower.
The only thing that was left after the war that plaqued this earth.
Lonely,
was the flower, with no one there to look at it with their eyes for they see
no more.
Lonely,
with no one to smell it's ever blowing sweet fragrance as the soft
summer rain slowly falls on it's ever broadening face.
Lonely,
with no one to hear the whistling of the wind as it blows through the petals
singing a sweet lullabye of time gone by.
Of the laughter and tears,
Of the grief, the joy, and the anger that once transgressed this earth.
Lonely,
with no one but the blowing winds, the driving rains, and the empty space
mocking it's
every living day.
Lonely,
it withers slowly...
it's petals,
it's leaves,
the very beauty of it slowly slipping from this earth,
following the path that everything before it has left.
Entering a void.
Lonely,
it withers and dies.
Dies of the very same thing that killed all before it on this earth.
The power;
the wars of anger and hatred;
and the years that slip by with barely a moment to think;
to breathe the warm, soft whisper of goodbye.
And finally, the loneliness that killed that one little flower.
The only thing that was left after the war that plaqued this earth.
 
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