Think

There was a pretty flower.

I found the other day.

Its physique was small and dainty.

Its petals soft as clay.

It hung its pretty head.

As the twilight shower poured.

The dewdrops dripping.

Dripping.

As it washed the day's mistreating.

The flower, weak and innocent.

Did nought to harm the world.

And yet it lay the following day.

Behind the fence, among the weeds.

Dead.