Wilted Flowers Poem Novels & Stories

I don’t know why, but it just did. But then I lifted my hand to the flowers and touched my fingers to one of the petals of a vibrant red Carnation. Within a few seconds the Carnation wilted in front of my eyes and the vibrant red turned into a dull brick brown color. And I knew that that’s exactly what I’d do to Anaya if I even breathed the same air as her.

I tried and soon I gave in and let my body give in to the pressure. “Sleep, tomorrow everything will be okay” his words were like a whisper but it was shouting to listen to him. I walk into the garden wall decorated with a variety of beautiful flowers, a white rose captures my attention from afar. Unlike the garden of the dark mansion which wasn't alone, this rose stood alone and was dying from the top right before my eyes. Before I could blink, the petals fell off one after the other and the stem rapidly dried off as if being hexed.

I ran to her, trying to wrestle the urn away from her, only to be shoved to the ground by Hansel. "What are you trying to do to Giselle again?" Giselle hid behind Hansel and smirked at me while toying with the urn in her hand. I watched in despair as some ashes fell out of the urn and onto the ground. Scrambling up from the ground, I yelled at her with rage-filled eyes. "No! Give me back that urn!" Looking down at me, Hansel said coldly, "Can you see your mistakes now?" I fell to the ground and begged them when the ashes wouldn't stop falling out of my child's urn.

"I never touched her. I swear, I’ve never slept with her." Charles exhaled deeply, relief washing over his features. "Good. That’s good." With another dismissive wave, he signaled for the bodyguards to drag the two women out. Their cries and protests faded into the distance, silenced at last. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, its warm hues casting a somber glow over the vast estate. Both men stood in the garden, their gazes drawn to the wilted hydrangeas surrounding them. The flowers had withered, seemingly gone to sleep, with no telling when—or if—they would bloom again.

Magda leads me around the car and opens the passenger door for me. Unsure, I climb in as I settle into the seat, feeling the coolness of the leather on my skin. As the jeep's engine fires up, I feel a swirl of emotions inside me. *** As Wolfgang drives, I focus on the beautiful scenery around us. The sun illuminates the extensive fields of the vineyard, where the vines stretch out in perfect rows. The vibrant colors of the ripe grapes contrast with the intense green of the leaves, creating an almost surreal image. The winding road led us through picturesque landscapes. The wind caresses my face, and for a moment, I feel that nature whispered in my ear, enveloping me in a tranquility that I h

I don’t like what I find. A clump of flowers lies just off-center from the marker stone. Wilted. Browning. Their petals curled in on themselves like they’re recoiling from the air. It’s not natural. I crouch low and press my palm to the dirt beside them. The ground feels dry. Like something beneath is leeching the life out of it. “Elunara,” I call without turning. “Come here.”

‎ ‎A lover who walked away from an argument, telling himself space was kindness. ‎ ‎A healer who let a wound fester, telling herself the body would heal itself. ‎ ‎A child who stopped asking questions, telling herself the world was too big to understand. ‎ ‎The doubt spread. ‎ ‎Not as darkness. ‎ ‎As absence. ‎ ‎The white flowers began to wilt. ‎ ‎Not die. ‎ ‎Wilt. ‎ ‎Petals curling in, as if protecting something too fragile for a world that had stopped caring. ‎ ‎The great oak's leaves began to fall.

Her eyes lifted to meet Astar's. "He called me..." Another flower blackened. "...the Wilted Flower."

There was something eerily beautiful but sad and harrowing in the foreboding poem the little voice sang so gently: Red flowers, red flowers… Blooming with blood, a pledge of spring which never came Red flowers, red flowers An omen, here, red flowers will never be the same. Red flowers, red flowers… In the midst of the misery of hell Red flowers, red flowers Red lips of my bedtime stories, which only a mother could tell. Red flowers, red flowers Red as the lips which always kissed my forehead goodnight. Red flowers, red flowers Judas' kiss of her cold lips which smothered the last ray of hope and light

Of the dawning of a good night. The one right behind me was just beginning to open from its bud. The one behind that was fully bloomed. The one behind that was starting to wilt. And the one behind that hung limp in the snow. All of them should have been dead. It was a barren place in the dead of winter. Springtime flowers like these shouldn’t be surviving, let alone blooming. Thoughts felt heavy and weightless. I would have them, and then they would float away like the snowflakes that surrounded me.