Some flowers are not meant to bloom--
their beauty in forsaken vow.
And tho I cannot help but mourn
a life deferred, it's over now
the field's been razed; embers glow.
Burning memories that never were
realized. A dream, a prayer sung
into secret primal need, unsure
like seed scattered in a stoic wind
and ground beneath uncaring heels.
The bud, the stem--burnt ashes fall;
this brittle is how broken feels.



You think your pain a secret, that I can't read between your lines.
You think I remain ignorant when you tell me things are fine.
Or maybe you are leaving clues and hope that I divine
the secret things which you won't say, yet tell me every time.
No matter that you think it--regardless what you say--
I may not love you as you wish, but I love you in my way...