A Snow-Covered Dandelion
What a peculiar thing to see!
A relic of past brightness,
Summertime’s boundless optimism,
Now covered in a layer
Of pure, muted White.
Covered in what it should
Have never touched,
In what is to come:
A strange discrepancy.
Oh, sweet flower
That could never bloom,
Nor find its truth
And could never become.
You find yourself covered
In a beautiful and cold
Blanket of Death,
Of pure, muted White.
The Winter Dandelion—
One who has waited patiently
For that which never came—
A vision of wasted potential;
You could never truly be—
They say “past your time”—
A crystallized relic for anyone
To gaze at then ignore;
You show true tragic beauty,
Out for anyone to stumble upon,
As you fade away slowly
Into this barren winter scenery.
This story is part of a collection of poems, short stories and introspective reflections of my creation, called “Grimoire of a Weirdo”.