By Ariba Khan
This work has previously been published on Write the World.
A morning glory with wilted tendrils seres, desiccate with decay.
Her veins no longer throb,
She shrinks and withers away.
Her tendrils coil no more; roots bleeding dry.
Her petals fall apart,
Beneath the tenebrous sky.
Softly, sunk beneath the soil, alone underground,
Buried in an unmarked grave,
Never to make a sound.
The red spider lily bloomed in early fall.
Red ribbons swathe me gently,
Sequestering me from all.
Through foibles and frailties and tempests unkind,
Languished and distressed,
Enamoured yet blind.
Forsaken in a meadow bereft of flowerbeds,
Preposterous to implore more,
From a flower meant for the deads.
In a green hollow tucked away; a tulip remains unblown this spring,
Yet sheltered from the gales,
And what the pitiless sun will bring.
Never to become moiety of an admirer's bouquet,
A malevolent fate, one might oppose.
Yet untouched by the anguish of decay,
A blessing, I suppose.
Ariba Khan is a poet and a writer for genres including but not limited to poetry, fiction and articles. Her works focus on gothic romanticism and classical literature inspired works. Her works have been selected for the newsletter of The City School. She has also received an award for achieving first position in the Indus Yaqeen Poetry Competition which was a national poetry competition open to students. She aspires to become a writer remembered by generations!
