This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

A pathetic little flower
In a terracotta pot,
My leaves are limp and mouldy
And the weather's not too hot,
For the sun has gone and veers away
From where I sit alone;
There's no warmth for me, a dying shade,
Where winter winds fierce moan.

I thought the sun a kindly friend,
A kiss upon my brow;
A fount of growth and blessing deep,
But he has left me now.
Other flowers, pretty things,
Have better colours, bright.
I'll never match their bursting glory,
Though I try with all my might.

There's nothing that the sun needs from me,
Never does he seek my heart,
And now he's gone, I've grown unlovely;
Slimy brown, I fall apart.
He dwells in lands that echo beauty,
Laughs within another's grace,
And here I die in sodden clay;
The sun refusing my embrace.

I thought that he might grow to welcome
Petals that I offered him;
I thought that he might love me fondly,
But my soul is sadly dim.
No seeds have I to leave behind
And show if he should reappear.
I wish that I had never grown,
But stayed earth-bound with unknown fear.

For once I blossomed, now I fade,
And now I've nothing I can give;
I've nothing that the sun or stars
Could want, or love; I cannot live.
My spirit's died inside this pot,
My roots all bound, a reeking mess.
I wish I'd once been budding loved,
And grown some joy with which to bless.

This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.