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Wither

She prompted me to go there
where flowers bloom
and
grow petals
one by one
with a thousand colors
of the spectrum
and a touch of gold
by the mighty sun

But I got there
and all I saw
and all my eyes confronted
was
a cold,dead tree
in the middle
of a barren field.
The image of death
disaster, despair
penetrating
the heart that's beating.

I never knew why
the flowers withered
and where
the dead flowers go
when they wither.

Poetry by Eva
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