Withered or Black
The two doors stand in tranquil there. One black, other with withered flowers My head is unclear, in the heavy air Over my sealed heart, my thoughts towers. I have an option, I know I do But if withered the second, isn’t black the better? My heart is slowing down, to black I drew Yearning for peace goes my dead letter. I glance back at the withered door With withered flowers hanging around it Painted white from the top to the floor How the withered flowers seem unfit. Wait, its flowers. Just withered Doesn’t that make it better than the black? But for a second, it blossoms, I pictured So to life, from death I step back.