Flower of a yet to come future

Handcuffed to the wall my mind has made up My tears descend my face to water the soil my knees made one with. Grew from it, a flower. How soft and brittle she is, yet capable of fighting the cold winds. The only colours passing through my dead eyes She talks to me, at least I hear a sound, A familiar voice of a stranger that conveys some warmth. Her petals reflect faceless visages that remind me of home, A home which door I have never opened, which I do not own the key. Until, ineluctably, she wilted. For it rose from the ashes of a once thriving land, Watered by the salty rain coming from the eclipsed sun.