At Peace Anika Seshadri The lotus perches on the rippling tides. Its arms lap up the droplets from the trees, from the once thundering sky plop in the center, and playfully trickle down the leaves. It’s center bright like the sun, burning in its effulgent glory. It seems the source of the flower’s pride, but the petals are a different story. They do not stand tall. They do not have the flushed complexion that they should, of a childish blush. Instead, they are bruised, like an apple plummeting to the ground. Just beautiful enough to be remembered, but too broken to be found. The lotus, limp on the surface, carried away by the flow. While being bashed by the elements: bitter sheets of snow,
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