Soft isn’t weak.

The Rose petals in my journey have dried into shades of brown and your photographs in my drawers haven’t tasted air for years now but the bushes of thorns are still thriving preventing me to reach those pictures that I must leave behind.

The lovesick Lavender have now stopped screeching in a high-pitched  cry after finding the purpose of embalming the corpse of our deserted memories, ironically decorating it with scented tales and floral fossils of love.

The Lantanas in my dry garden spread itself at the reminiscene like a cluster of bright, vibrant shades of desires sprouting as weed but representing beauty with rigour.

The conquest of Hibiscus in my spine isn’t confined to its seeds of poking at the past but also through its root capable of rising as phoenix from the ashes of the dead past, raging hard as one who is full of purposes now.

The Rosy Periwinkle in my shadow shrunk itself as the demon and the angel depending on how you perceive it. It now carries the power to cure the monsterous cancer of my insanity and the poision of your disposition that wilted me along the journey.

The Salvia around my aura now heals me by adding a texture and colour of my own identity with a subtle quality of protecting me against the plague of being crushed under the shoes of your dark, twisted behaviour.

The Portulacas in my hair have grown wild adopting a tendency to outgrow the firm grip of smokey traditions and downright arrogance that had me pinned down before with all of its mighty force.

A flower worth adorning, the soft plant worth the cure, is gonna reborn from its seeds as many times as you stomp on it.
Soft isn’t weak.

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