Wilted Flowers Poem Novels & Stories

he walks off and kneels next to a small patch of Crimson Beebalm. Crimson Beebalm is a stunning flower. The petals are long and slender and they come out of a hairy looking center that is connected green leaves that look like they support the bud and a long smooth green stem. Best of all, it’s edible so I’ll be collecting some of it for the camp. Wait, what did he say? “It’s obviously either red or yellow, I don’t know of any grey muted colored flowers, the center even looks black.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and let my hair fall like a curtain around my face. I didn’t cry. I just breathed, slow and deep, until the sharp edge of the memory dulled. Someone passed in the hallway. Footsteps, a low murmur of voices. I stayed still until the sounds faded. When I finally looked up, the flowers were still there. Still perfect. Still waiting for me to acknowledge them. I almost wished they’d wilt faster. I reached over and turned the vase so the stems faced the wall. The petals still caught the light, but now they were angled away from me.

You don't need to worry about me. Her response catches me off guard. It's as if my words hold no weight in her mind, as if she's impervious to any attempts to control or manipulate her emotions. She continues to gaze at the flowers, her expression still filled with sadness. The garden sprawls before us, a vast expanse of carefully manicured lawns and vibrant blossoms. Each flower seems to radiate life, as if they have become more vibrant in the presence of Natasha's melancholy. The air is filled with the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers, creating an enchanting atmosphere.

I wasn't about to wreck a home. "So dumb." I wipe my eyes on my knees, but the tears don't stop. I look up and can see people making their way through the trees towards me. I sniff and rest my chin on my hands. My eyes trail down, and through my blurry vision, I can see dozens and dozens of flowers blooming around me. I furrow my brow, wiping at my eyes again and moving to sit on my knees and crouch over the flowers. I hadn't wiped my hands on the ground, but they were still blooming. Pink ones, purple, white. Still smaller than a quarter, but slightly bigger than the last ones I made bloom. And there were a lot more of these too. They continued to appear around where I sat as I watched.

“The flower is in its normal state—and that’s what makes it special.” How is a wilted flower special? “Let me tell you the story of the Bloom Festival,” he started off, so I perked up my ears and paid attention. I looked to my left and saw that Axel was also attentively listening. “Once upon a time, there was a flower that fell in love with the sun. It was a pure white flower that only thrived during the night, for the extreme heat and light of the sun made the flower wilt. The other flowers and the other stars tried to warn the two to stay away from each other—but they didn’t listen. Their love was too great that they’d rather suffer together than lose one another.”

Grandma’s words caught in her throat as she looked at Grandpa slumped in the defendant’s seat. Overcome with shock and grief, she fainted immediately. “Such misfortune! Such misfortune! Daniel, look at what kind of wife and son you have…” Aunt Linda’s eyes were red, her gaze fixed accusingly on Dad. Dad stood frozen, guilt written across his face, tears streaming uncontrollably. Court staff carried Grandpa out, and Dad lunged forward, clutching his hand and shouting, “Dad! Wake up! How could it come to this? Why? Why couldn’t I save you?”

Or not enough? With a sigh, she dipped her pen in ink and began to write, her emotions finding shape in verse: A withered rose, forgotten in the vase, Still thirsts for light, for water, and for grace. Though petals fall and vibrant hues have fled, A fragrance lingers where beauty once was bred. The gardener passes, blind to silent plea, His gaze fixed firm on fresher blooms than she. Yet still she stands, her purpose not yet done, A quiet dignity beneath the sun.

It's gonna be one hell of a rinse, wash, repeat for him~. And after the white silhouette concluded with that it disappeared within a blink of an eye in front of Anima as well. And she exhaled out a long exasperated sigh out into the empty world of flowers as they flow within their own time of the brisking heat in summer, cringingly of the nose in fall, deceased in winter, and begin anew in spring. In their own time. Anima just sat down with her flowers blooming around her and just waited within that time as well…

The poem was short, simple, and devastating: I stayed. I witnessed it. I loved it. That was enough. The witnesses repeated the words, their voices rising and falling like the pulse of the flowers. The gold flowers glowed, and the watcher's attention was soft and warm. --- Solenne became the keeper of the garden.

“You’ve never tried to leave?” Ivy looked across the valley. “I never had anywhere else to go.” Lila’s heart ached. “No one should ever feel like that.” Before Ivy could answer, a warm breeze swept through the garden. Every flower turned toward her. White lilies opened all at once. Lavender burst into bloom. Rosebuds unfolded in seconds. The air filled with the sweet scent of jasmine. Both women froze. Lila slowly turned toward Ivy. “…Did you do that?” “I…”