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Flowers
Resting in a silent cool colored pot, the vibrant flowers start to droop like a weeping willow
They miss their home sinking lower as they think about it
They were stolen from the free field they were born in
To live in a cramped pot
In the field the wind rushed through their blush and fool's gold colored petals
They drank freely from the nourishing ground
In the pot they only got to drink if the human remembered to fill it up
No breeze was to be found
As the youngest flower thinks about the field and where he is now he becomes angry
He thinks how unfair it all is and when nobody is looking he falls from the pot
He smacks into the wooden table
As he dies he feels the free wind flowing through his petals and sighs
The sigh blends into the wind.
