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Weekly Contest #86
My mother used to say every child was a bud, waiting to blossom, waiting for those delicate little petals to peek every so slightly through the young leaves of our youth. We all wander a world of marigold petals and mint, asphodel and the curled yellow petals of birdsfoot trefoil. We roam a garden full of the thorns that are suspicion and grief, dried white roses crinkling underfoot in a trail of everlasting sorrow. Their fallen, pale veils tell the story of happiness long gone, buried in the dirt under layers of crumbling leaves and...
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