I am a sort of golden-yellow
                                  Like sunshine
                                                   Like honey.
 
I light up
     And laugh
And smile
    And create
 
I’m a sort of golden-yellow
Taking joy from life
Always
 
But only sometimes.
 
Sometimes I’m                   grey
Not the soft kind, the
                                                             Hard kind
Too hard
               Almost brittle
Granite
       Dusty
                  Forgotten
Beaten down
                                                      By so many things
 
It’s well known
If you pressure too-hard granite
                                                       Too hard
                                                                          Too long
It will
Break
Snap
Shatter
 
Despite your best intentions
To keep it living
 
It is the same with a flower
Let us
Say
A golden-
                      Yellow flower
Swaying softly
              In the
                        Breeze
“Does he love me?”
             All the petals
                                Will
                                                      Come floating
                                                                                              Down
The yellow petals
Plucked
 
One
 
By
 
One
 
When an
             Answer
Is concluded
The flower
    Now stripped of its petals
                                                 Is dropped
                                                                               And crushed
 
Now it is no longer needed
 
The flowers are dying
The rest of the garden is
Turning against
Them
 
The flowers can be crushed
                 And shredded
                                         And picked apart
                                         But they will still be golden-yellow flowers
 
Maybe they will call out
                                         For help
But nobody will come
 
Because nobody understands the language
Of the flowers
No one except the flowers.