Petunia Alba

Petunia Alba

White and funnel

Single and meek

Stained in blood

Blooming on the weak in flowery field

Brimming in balmy bleak.

I must speak

To it’s sleek

Ferret amongst it’s spring whorls

That turn by the wind’s fervour

To wilt

And fall dead on the moist palms

Of a patriotic kindred soldier

Who sighted the cutlass scrouge

O Petunia Alba!

Tell me who on my men passed here;

The ones that lay dead beneath my feet

With your skirmish petal

On their side.

O Petunia Alba!

Tell me what misery happened here.

I want someone to be my petunia.
Someone who I can blame, except to take my grievances, melancholy and devastation along. when you get tired of consoling, wiping tears that brush past your cheek and pulling yourself from the bottom repeatedly?  And then you’d think ‘oh god, why me. Why the hell me?’
Don’t you wish you had someone responsible for all the pain and chaos you’ve been put through? Someone who has the answers to your self doubts, mind boggling theories, the fate that awaits you, the reasons why people left you and almost anything unanswerable.
The soldier finds his men dead, scattered in a flowery field of petunias.
His overwhelming agony leads him to the flowers, searching deep within it reasons so as to what had happened. Eventually, he blames the petunia for that is the only visual that remains.

 

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