The Mark of Yellow

in the wake of your leave

An alley adorned with crinkled petals:
amber-hued—faded, jaded, at death’s door.
Their birth differed from their tragic end:
a memory bank of fine red tone.

Out you walked; turned them yellow—
they spat their colour, lost the radiance.

Flashback to when you bought this place;
danced with the sunrise breaking through the pond.
The beaming greens gazed into your eyes;
your brilliant blues sang for their life.
Promises made: they keep the green, you keep your word.

Days passed, weather changed—so did your attention.
Broken promises and treasure chests filled with sand.
The flowers wrestled their nights for droplets
that never came, to salvage their ruinous state.

Out you walked; turned them yellow—
they spat their colour, lost the radiance.

— Fatima Z.