Dandelion on a field

dandelion

I’m a dandelion on a field. Swaying with the wind, craving for the sun, standing alone.

Some see me as a weed, to be plucked, ignored, nothing important.

Some see me as a hope, to be plucked, before softly blowing me into pieces.

And so I fly, experiencing all sorts of emotion.

And so I fly, awaiting the next destination that I may grow up loving, hating or simply, living while feeling neither.

I’m a dandelion on a field. Delicate – pieces of me drifting away.

I’m a dandelion on a field. Growing – budding, blossoming, wilting, dying.

I’m a dandelion on a field. Watching – witnessing days go by.

Days that hold much beauty, or days that are just downright ugly.

I’m a dandelion on a field. Swaying with the wind, craving for the sun, standing alone.

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