THE SUNFLOWER
- Jun 6
- 1 min read
By Matthew Vorley
The sunflower once stood tall
gold halo, head lifted to a sky I could never reach
but now its petals hang like torn confessions,
colour drained, spine cracked,
a monument to everything I failed to hold.
I watch it die
slow, deliberate,
the way love dies when the voice shakes
and the mind shuts down
and the heart forgets how to speak.
Its stem folds in on itself
just like my chest did
the day I walked away from the only warmth I knew.
Now there’s nothing but dirt under my nails
and a silence that screams in the shape of her name.
The sunflower is hollow now,
a shell of what it was
and I realise I am the same.
No light to follow,
no fire left behind the ribs,
just a man made of echoes
and a heart dripping black where the yellow used to be.
If the flower can’t turn to the sun anymore,
then what hope do I have?
We died together
her in the garden,
me in the dark behind my eyes.