Petals of a flower fall,
And the soil soaks them up.
The steady flowing wilted flesh
of time not spent quite well enough.
As it feeds from the sun's slow burn,
it's craving something more
to set itself apart from everything.
The strike was placed,
hand over face.
Taken away to a strange place.
Where we're left in such a mess,
wishing death would come.
What is this place?
Why have we been taken here?
Pain is filling every day.
Why have we been left here.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.