Memoirs of a Wild Flower

Here’s a poem I made when I was 18.

It was but a day when the birds flew above the hill,

And the rain is but a drop;
A flower sits on the window sill,
Perched almighty and refusing to flop.

A wild flower,
Peeking through my window sill;
A charming yet simpler clover,
Lays pleasantly, until

A shroud of clouds hovered by,
And crystals showered upon,
A streak of lightning passed by;
Making the tiny one fall down.

A gentle breeze came by.
The wild flower will live again, somewhere near the sky.


About The Scribbler

I have this thirst for learning. I am forever curious. I love to delve into stories by reading, watching or even listening. I believe I am unique. God is with Me all the time. I make mistakes but I learn from them. I love building lasting relationships. I am afraid of the unknown, so it's either I stay away or find out. I believe I am more matured that I was before.
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One Response to Memoirs of a Wild Flower

  1. fractalcore says:

    i’d really like to read more of your poetry.
    you have to write again, but not without a good reason.

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