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.
