The orange tree blossoms once a year,
white and pure with petals
which fall to bear fruits
so rich in colour
that the seasons stop to stare
as the oranges sit quietly in the spring heat.
I like to watch the oranges grow
and drain the colour of those around them
with bright hues
and soft skin
and radiate the joy and stories untold
into bleak backgrounds
where words sit unspoken
while the oranges sing.
And here I stand
with orange juice spilling down my throat
and into my lungs
so sickly and sweet
but the landscape remains bleak
and the tender oranges refuse to grow
upon a branch which bears no blossom.
Grey seeps into the pale pink colour like the skin of an old man during his dying breaths. It claws and grasps away at the gentle hues as death and decay trails behind. Vibrant and beautiful, the rose once stood in the vase but now it lay letting what was left of the colour drain into the surrounding water. Shrivelled were the petals and creased were the stems of the flower. Around the flower the friendly motion of start-of-the-lesson preparation was beginning and already some students had sat down with books and pens scattered across the table. Someone sat at the back of the room with a single pen in front of them, quietly observing the flower. They watched as the petals breathed gently in the passing breeze; each motion was strained and seemed to carry pain that very few would ever experience. The student sat and watched this pitiful nature of death.
Many years ago, they had been young,...