Blossoms

I recently wrote a poem called 'Withered Blossom'. Thought it would be fitting to include it:

 

Withered Blossom:

 

She did not have many worldly possessions,

save for the ornate blue and white vase kept tucked away

in the far corner of the room

Once they held blossoms,

given to her by the men who would only come in the night

But the vase had stayed empty for years now

(If this perturbed her, she did not show it)

 

Pinning back her streaked raven black hair

with a comb that had been her mother’s

She began to hum a haunting yet familiar tune,

one she had long forgotten the words to.

As she stared at her distorted reflection

in the mirror that hung above her vanity,

she took great pleasure

in how the jagged shards

created the appearance of chasms

on her weathered skin.

 

In her prime, her complexion had rivaled

that of the purest ivory

and the finest porcelain,

or so she’d been told

by the crowds that would gather

to hear a voice so sweet

Even the nightingales fell silent to listen

Yet these days no one seemed eager to hear

from this old crow

 

It was a bitter winter when her daughter returned to the home,

wrinkling her nose at the state of disarray,

swearing when a restless mouse

decided to make his presence known.

A bespectacled man by the door paced impatiently

as she rummaged through the drawers before

declaring the items to be worthless cluster

Her chilly stare fell on the gleaming vase

which stuck out like a sore thumb in such a decrepit room

It was what she had presumably came for, after all.

To fulfill the departed woman’s last wish

 

When the ash had finally settled

in the confines of the chamber

All that remained was

kept hidden away inside the ornate blue and white vase,

where it solemnly sits in the abode of her callous daughter.

Still in this darkest hour,

when the pale moon sits upon

the upmost branch of a rotting tree

the nightingales cannot bring themselves to sing.

Done