evitae

One cloudy day after the other, flowers do not bloom, closed up for so long, ravaged by wind and rain. Even once clouds pass, flowers fail to blossom, Apollo’s fiery gaze as capable of destruction as of creation, so many fallen petals a testament to a slow death. What was once vibrant reduced at once to crinkled, pale tombstones, adornments for Gaia’s solemn brow.