The wilted flower stands alone, beaten and isolated.
Children's laughter has not reached his ears for quite some time.
The soft hands that had nurtured him are nowhere to be found.
A watering can lies on its side, just out of reach.
The wilted flower has weathered the storm alone.

A once-proud stem arches against the wind; crisp yellowed petals tremble and fall to shroud the face.
The wilted flower is turning brown, its head too much for the curved neck to bear.

The wilted flower struggles in silence.
He can no longer feel the warm sun's caress.
His tears fail to penetrate the parched soil, to heal the thirst that he has endured for so long.

Distant memories of tiny shoes squishing dewy grass, miniature palms forming prints in the dirt, ice-cream cones melting in the summer sun, begin to take shape.

The fragile roots that had supported him begin to fray.
He surrenders, tumbling to the ground below in desperate prayer.
The wilted flower bows his head for the last time.