Left and right arrow keys to change slides. Space to see page number (32 pages) This began as a doodle in class (see last picture), but eventually grew (pun intended) into this poem. If you like this poem, could you please check out my studio? http://scratch.mit.edu/studios/260462/ I think I'm getting to the point where my poetry could have multiple different meanings, which is pretty cool. I'm honestly in love with this poem, just because I've been working on the idea for about a month. And this is also the last piece of writing I'm going to share with my teacher before he leaves... Not like you guys probably care that much, but he means the world to me. The backdrop was made by me with Photoshop and briefly edited in GIMP. Also, if you don't like the format of this poem (the backdrop may make it difficult to read) here's the poem. I actually kinda edited it a bit, but not enough to completely redo the project. I just got rid of some passive voice, which a lot of you wouldn't even notice. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Wilted A meadow of all of life’s stages: Birth, existence, death. The thousands of grass blades waved At the immortal wisps of wind. The gusts carried a child. Like a baby is rocked in a mother’s arms, The little seed carefully bounced into a new terrain. Separated from her family at birth, The wind was her only comfort. The seed dropped when the wind ceased to care. She fell through the air, Ready to hit the concrete ground, Ready to be crushed by the impact, Ready to lose the tiny bit of time she had. But it wasn’t quite concrete down there. A cluster of cousins caught her. Feeble, scrawny, weedy, They nurtured the young seed; They tucked her in bed. Almost overnight, a leafy sprout sprung from the ground. With this new growth, Her stem burned with thirst. Of course, they delivered water immediately, They fulfilled every need. Healthy, hearty, hardy. Gradually throughout an eon, But it passed like a second, She matured. Taller, sturdier, bolder. A stunning transformation Her thorns, sharp and thin, Protruded haphazardly from her stem. Her stem, green and lean, Shot from the soil. She had both structure and beauty. Glowing petals arched from the top And branched out into Millions of different directions. A sweet scent scuttled across the landscape. All attention shined on her. In this lush valley, There were no replicas of her. Only grass, a tree, and leaves it had shed. She was the one, the only, light in the world. Then, the curtain of night dropped. A coat of ebony covered the scene, Like a paint bucket spilt, And the color immediately vanished, From all the objects. Except one. For the prettiest of the objects, The color slowly drained away. In a way, it was like the world regretted the action, Like it wanted to make the most of every tint, every hue. But it was an eternity of torture. It began in the thorns. Like a shield, they guarded the treasure. But once broken, They were shattered forever. She let out a wheeze. Easily exposed, but equally elaborate Previously pink petals faded to brown. They crinkled and crumbled Like bones under a boot. An agonizing adjustment. As each hard-earned petal drifted away from her, She was a mirror image of the grass. Her stem, still speared with a ghostly green, sagged, And her trophies had been torn away. Difficult to earn, easy to lose. Her cousins, also decayed, Did nothing to preserve her essence. They just swayed in the breeze Like they didn't just watch her blossom. As if they hadn't watched her grow from the dirt. Years later, the inky layer still coated each speck; The darkened grass still waved at the passing wind; The stem of the child still fought the black, But the petals, the thorns, and the hope had long been lost. The thought of recovery wilted as soon as the prize floated into oblivion.
