At the heart of every violet, is a rose
A beautiful idea that always grows.
However, it cannot die, and is always reborn
Presenting us with life, now allowing us to mourn.
Each flower; every unsymmetrical shape
Is unable to be disguised, by the same form of drape.
Whether it grows out of light, or in the plainest view
Their life is not theirs, whatever they do.
While we are much worst, at being kind
We lengthen our fingers, on whatever we find.
The flowers adapt, whereas we cannot
Men conqueror and build, and continue to plot.
We've tried development, and we've tried to bloom
But we will always remain, inside our own tomb.
Our sacrifices are not noble, they're always for us
With no consideration, for whatever others love.
Beneath the ground lies nothing but dirt
A thousand miles, of feeble words are blurt.
Covered by weeds, as thick as our lies
The end of our time, we lie back and die.
The plants may bloom, but they remain still
Nothing ever changes, and nothing ever will.
Comments about this poem (The Flowers by Phil Wall )
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