Wilted: A Poem by Concetta Pipia

I am the wilted flower,
My petals dropping, one by one,
A slow decay, a silent power,
Beneath the blistering sun.

The garden is a graveyard,
Shadows creep where light once danced,
Memory, a cruel bard,
Singing songs of no second chance.

I am tethered to this earth,
Roots entwined with pain and fear,
My beauty stolen at birth,
Each petal a whispered tear.

The soil drinks my sorrow,
A never-ending thirst,
There is no bright tomorrow,
Only the quiet, unkind, and cursed.

In this decay, I find my truth,
A testament to fragile grace,
The bloom of my tortured youth,
Now lost in time and space.