The Flowers Wept In Poetry I Failed To Write Poem by Uriah Hamilton

In lonely corners of the city,
I can feel the melancholy days
seep into my soul like rain
into the autumn earth.

If perhaps I was in the country,
I could disappear into unknown hollows
where flowers escaped manicured gardens
and were lifted by angelic winds
to find wild, untamed freedom.

But instead, I linger
on the saddest avenues
with the most tragic views,
the empty children waiting
for drug-dealing careers
and the beat-down old men
broken without friends
drinking on rickety corners.

I wait for October leaves
to sway in heaps
around my feet
as I creep to some insignificant place
where every stranger's face
is as meaningless as mine.

The heart is a wailing baby in defeat,
but silence will meet acceptance
and one day, myself and every scattered friend
will lie in pointless graves of eternal decay
after leaving nothing behind of any emotional or monetary value.