Trust.
It’s quite an interesting word, trust…
Whether its promises upheld,
Or a simple bonding of meaningful moments.
Trust to me,
Is like a flower.
It grows and grows,
But when its been betrayed or not upheld,
It withers.
And is no more.
Sure you can make new flowers,
But that one always plants itself in your soul,
Wary of a dangerous threat.
I call those withered flowers… grudges…
I know a few close to me,
I used to have three flowers for each one of them.
The first instantly got its head cut, and its stem fell.
The second was a flower,
Whose sunshine was blocked.
It died too.
The third,
Oh, how my withered flowers warned me.
But I did not listen.
And overtime,
The third one also died.
But a new one grew.
But the original,
It never let me forget.
None of them did.
They warned me,
And yet again I did not listen,
Because I did not find it as to be a big deal.
I still try to brush it off…
But its roots go deep,
When it’s sunlight flickers for moments.
So from my infinite garden of withered roses,
I have tried to make the rose that plants itself in others souls,
Grow strong.
Because I don’t make the same mistakes,
As others did to me.
I won’t let my rose for you die.
I won’t cast a shadow,
Or snip its head off,
Or drown it from dehydration.
I will nourish it with the promises I keep of my sunlight,
And courage of my water,
And I will clean it with the hands that won’t stab you in the back.
Because I’ll flourish your garden,
And,
I hope you do the same for me.