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.