School For Young Writers, Year 11
Flowers. There are a lot of flowers. Every day someone
crouches by me, one hand on their heart and the other
holding a bunch of flowers. Lilies, lilacs, roses, poppies — an
abundance of flowers. I don’t understand why and maybe I
never will. Hearts are torn, eyes look glazed but aware. Maybe
they appreciate me? But why all at once? I’ve heard and
witnessed many different voices, languages, faces, and people.
No one was the same. They were all united. They all cared.
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