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THE WITHERED PETALS
I hold the withered petals
of my illusions
in my hand.
Then I throw them on the ground
and lift my foot
to trample upon them....
But I can't,
Because I can't be cruel,
Because it hurts,
Because it is painful....
So I pick up again the withered petals
of my illusions
To keep for the cruel, cynical woman
I would be in a few years
For the woman in a desolate place
Who, with a cruel and sinister laugh,
would fling away the withered petals
Among the debris
in disgust
with me, with herself, and the ways
If your illusions are your dreams then I would say they held on to you, my dear! Sometimes one travels the entire distance of the earth to find themselves when really all they must do is turn around. Don't ever turn around again and you will find that your illusions will unfold from mystery into your God given destiny. Fear not death but life without God!
I still have my withered petals also. I just love this poem. It is a little bit of all of us. I pray day to day to stay up. This is why I held on so tightly to my petals. Linda