from proud bellows

to mere whispers that are all too mellow, 
a withered soul looks upon those 
with a sense of longing
to escape its comatose.

crinkled eyes at the corners
are replaced with
sullen sockets.
the same mouth that would once 
break into a grin 
is deconstructed to
a firm line so grim. 
arms so small yet had the potential to engulf many in a warm hug
hung coldly at either side. 

the light of such a soul
has been dimmed
and dimmed again,
deprived of its role.
so, which is it?
dimmed or...withered? both.
this soul is slowly losing its light 
and gorgeous petals,
one by one,
preferring to stay out of sight.
curled up and worried,
the dark, withered soul
clings onto the edge 
only wanting to be buried. 

but just as the last petal of this withered soul
threatens to fall,
just as the darkness near this
withered soul
threatens to call,
the sun will rise again,
and the flower will bloom
every spring.