A Flower, Hell, Tick-tock, and a Subway

In this hell we call life,

You are my flower.

Always blooming,

Always reaching,

Towards the sky, towards some kind of heaven.

Always growing.

Growing more beautiful everyday,

But I know, one day,

You will die.

As a flower dies in the winter.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

The clock is always moving

And as the clock is moving, so are we.

Moving, always moving and racing

Racing against time

Always too busy for anything else.

Too busy to care, to listen to another’s story.

Too busy to even drop a penny in the bum’s jar on the street,

Because we are afraid of missing the subway.

But in this chaotic world of rushing and racing,

Racing and rushing,

You are my flower.

Your petals are soft and delicate.

They gently press against my nose as I breathe in their sweet scent.

They are pulled by the wind and easily crushed,

But your stem is strong, it holds you up tall.

Tall against the weeds, the grass, other flowers.

But that can still be bent, can still be broken,

In a strong wind, or once trodden upon.

But there are still the roots.

Your roots hold tight,

With all of their might to the earth.

Growing further and further,

Deeper and deeper.

Holding fast to your beliefs, your past,

To your family, your heritage.

Holding to everything that has been and still is important in your life.

And they will keep holding on

Until you are plucked from this earth,

Or the winter frost comes.

Then you will become the soil beneath our feet.

You will become earth

For another flower to grow into.

But for now,

You are my flower

In this chaotic world

I call my life.