Flower
That yellow flower
So small, frail, thin
And dead.
It's head, once adorned with
succulent petals,
now droops with a greyish hue
shriveled up and dry,
as if curling into itself
to hide its shame.
The Dance
So we'll dance on that checkered floor
to the violins, the cello, the trickle of the piano.
Twirling, smiling, chatting, laughter in the air,
We could forget, and let it all go.
We'll dance our way across the room,
till the sun makes way for the moon.
Your hand in mine, we'll keep our faith.
And never let go.