Inner

When it comes and goes, the lone flower still sticks out gently from the shade of green. Velvet and a little blue, it sways from the hush of the wind to the silent walls that command it from wilting. So it stays strong and holds its head, so as to achieve some level of self-pride, hoping to wish that a careful passerby would pluck it nonchalantly and just, just...let it fly away. Personification plays amazingly well at this stage, where decorum fits the exact stature of what you would deem just any other living plant, holding a quarter of a speck of the earth when viewed from afar. It is polite and easily pleased, very content. And so it does not say much as its head turns at every angle to view the upper sanctum where feet sweep through fresh grass. Then does the space seem perforated, as you least expect it, the entirety of such sweet recollections burst past the gaping holes...and all you have is just a fisheye lens focus right up to that little shaft of light cast onto a petal. But does it really know where its roots stand? I wish it did. Because just as it feels a little less likely to wilt and be trampled upon, things happen. So off it goes and down the rain pours...so strong that even the lone flower next to it nods to the hands of time.