The Painful

what flower is this? what flower are we? surely the dog-rose resides in me.

the hellbent fires,

and her still cries.

all her wants and desires,

petrified.

if only someone listened,

she hoped.

yet no one answered,

so she never spoke.

not alone nor lonely,

just blank and empty.

the fire slowly dies.

without any heat,

how could she survive?

a sea of columbine grows,

when everyone goes.

pleasure with a hint of pain,

like the dog-rose.