Wed, 09/14/2016 - 17:02 -- kitart

Purple-black flowers dot the landscape,

Each seed planted without care as they're pounded into the landscape.

They grow and wither away, yellow, just to sprout anew elsewhere.

Tender, sore, delicate petals, unknowingly marks of human's hatred,

Covered up always by fear and self-consiousness.

A breeze flows through the valley carrying with it a song

Of hope and heroity, and the petals drift.


Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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