Photo by Daphné Richard on Unsplash
Little yellow bud
Called a weed by those who do
Not understand hope
About the Creator
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More stories from Joelle E N and writers in Poets and other communities.
Harbinger of Despair
Who was he but just a man? To feel the weight of the world on his shoulders, he was no Atlas. Yet his bowed stance and tender neck suggested otherwise. It came to him in a dream: the absent stoking of an everlasting flame. A gnarled finger pointed towards an inevitable end, a sign that couldn't be ignorantly shaded; recurrence made sure of it. He didn't remember how long it had been going on; time didn't matter at this point. He just knew it was long enough to be petrified to fall asleep.
By James U. Rizzi2 days ago in Fiction
Comments (4)
Oh wow! You knocked it out the park with this one! Well done, Joelle!
A great outlook on such a small thing 🥰
love this so much!
This one is my favorite so far!!! The last line really adds the masterful touch.