The Infinite Language of Flowers
You told me to pick my favorite flowers and pretend they were from you.
I burned in the aftermath of your message.
Harboring the sentiment; believing it...for me only.
I, the foolish one.
Pick my own flowers, and pretend they are from you. I shattered in the clutches of that moment
as beautifully as a glass-blown angel in the fist of a demented artist.
I am lost in pretending and don't care to find my way out of it.
You knew I was destined to dwell behind the veil of an ambiguous poem
or be the mirage that mingles on the breath of every dying horizon.
You were not wrong.
And, for you, I chose the bluest ones...
© 2016 blue angel