In petals, there are poems,
words nestled in their velvet folds.
Lilies whisper soft condolences,
while roses bleed out sonnets of desire.
A daisy’s open face reads like
a childhood diary—pages full of innocence,
while poppies speak of sleep,
fingers stained with dreams.

The wild forget-me-nots cling
to memories, murmuring, Stay, stay,
as gardenias stand like secrets,
delicate and heavy with what’s left unsaid.
A single marigold burns
with silent warnings, its scent
like the ghost of regret lingering in the air.

Every bloom carries a language,
its roots wrapped around old myths.
Hyacinths spell out apologies,
tulips hold promises between their leaves,
and violets blush with shyness,
as though caught confessing something sacred.

In gardens, we write stories with blossoms—
a bouquet becomes a letter,
a rose held at a lover’s lips,
a sonnet carried by the wind.
Some flowers speak of joy in a language
older than words, while others weep
with petals heavy from lost love.

Listen to the language they carry—
the way lavender soothes a troubled mind,
how orchids dance with quiet seduction,
and the bleeding heart, split in two,
whispers of longing that never fades.

Every petal, every thorn,
a verse in the quiet, blooming truth.