by Kevin K., 15
Where the wildflowers grow I seek
A haven from the smog.
Dreams of cultivating the seeds of elders,
imbued with distrust and pallid white.
Flowers that bloom amongst the
Orange fiery glow, lay to rest their petals.
Hazy solitude, smoking from the blackened
stacks unbeknownst to their frail skeleton.
Ashes flew from the collapsed portal,
plummeting into the nearby adit.
Whispers of petals wrung wilting for
smokey traces of disobedience.
From the rupture stemmed a refusing root,
merging land and ocean, once divergent.
A parallel self escaped, not without a mapped
ground of trenches filled with blackened souls.
Extinction whispered at the seasons, leaving
blossoms to ache in pain.
Look past the burnt summer in search of
the thorns, as they lay scattered and
scorched in the globe of poppies.
Nature’s heart pulsed, suffered from an
uppercut of tragedy, and spoke once: