From nothing it grew,Green veins of life,
it lived.
Seasons changed.
Heat waves, winds blew. Cold.
and it fell.
Tumbled, dirty,
frail shrivelled life.
It died cold...alone.
But, There was warmth.
a womb only from death
nestled deeply.
Saved from wind and cold,
it flourished,
fluttered free.
From death: Life, metamorphosed
1 comment:
I feel this poem to be somewhat self explanatory. It is simply about knowing that no matter what happens there will always be some good which will prevail. Without bad there would be no good.
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