Sunflowers

There she lays on the bed of roses
sipping dew off the leaves
beneath the twigs of the lavender
under the dome of her surrender.
And he a bystander
without a name or identity
stays behind the wind
locked out by the barbed wire
and misty chill of the night.
Ethereal she, inside her home
weary he, plagued by the morn.
Eternity later, in milliseconds;
faceless he, whom she never knew
left behind some sunflowers
with golden hue
and the cold stones
soaked up the warmth
until the petals wilted.

© srijaprasita