Wilted

Fields stained with fluorescence;
dots of yellow and red,
you stand motionless,
wind blazing through your hair.

You're alone,
black adorns your crown.
The painted fields stand mocking,
they surround your loneliness.

Each and every flower's plucked,
made into bouquets;
Once painted fields stand mocking,
they surround your loneliness.

For who could love a flower black,
petals wilted and worn?
Beauty once was your best bet,
and beauty wasn't bloomed.

Wait patiently, my dear petunia,
you'll find your bouquet.