Budding Solitude

Budding Solitude    

A flower, swaying idly on it's field.

It wishes and wonders of what it would be like... To be picked. 

The flower is content where it is but the thought seemed pleasant.

This place, however, was desolate 

The field of flowers, all identical to it, dampen its barely lingering hope. Hope to be something.

But alas, alas, alas, It's insignificance remains. It's forever. It will be forever. 

It will slowly... oh so slowly rot.

And soon forgotten. 

Such as every other clone on that god forsaken field. 

It's disdain festers, it's idle swaying more purposeful, angry.

Why was this... this insignificance the only guaranteed knowledge?

Why was it that it was placed here.... on this field with all these other duplicates. Duds... 

It wanted to leave. I wanted to leave. 

For I am this pitiful plant. 

No one will remember my name