Christina Papoulis

Wilted Sunflower
By Christina Papoulis

How the golden colored florets within you refuse to sway when showered upon

with a cascading stream of water; that won’t save you from your perils.

Your once emerging blooming form now relating to that of a burned down

home, covered in tides of suds, once filled to the brim with people and love.

No longer do people circle curiously around you, their mouths agape and their fingertips 

wiping their glistening eyes, overflowing with tears at your overwhelming beauty. 

Now it seems people only marvel at how even with the downpour of rain, 

you still somehow come out the eye of the storm looking all the same, neglected.

With your withered petals crumbling into dust, observers hack, clutching

their throats and belongings, almost as if they will disintegrate into dust too.

For it seems your only purpose is to be a reflection of what once was, a life 

in the absence of solitude, a life of catching the attention of onlookers.

I feel overcome with raw emotion to see how there’s no longer any ink infusing 

color in your once blossomed figure, now just shades of gray and decay. 

I weep violently for you, for it will only be your beauty that’s recollected by past 

admirers, rather than the haven you built for the sacred honey bees.

Author's Note: I love writing because it provides an escape from irrefutable reality, it gives writers glimpses into worlds and perspectives other than our own.