The petals to this flower,
Grown sticky by the pollen going unshared.
That passion to spread forth to lovely bumblebees,
Shouting from each petal.
Such a flower, why she's grown awfully little.
Each day, the color of each strand fading into a gloom surrounding.
The cold, rigid vase concealing her.
She stays confined by the old water keeping her alive.
Grown too weak without, so surely she’d perish.
The heavy cube, sharp and spiked crystals,
Dazzling, yet so violent,
Seizing the water by strange brutality.
The flower shan’t blame this vase,
For whom truly broke it to begin with?
Perhaps, she ponders, it is not this case's fault for this cruelty.
The young petal, simply one,
Chooses to part, bringing all said flower with it.
She finds her way to the soil,
Engraving each wound into the brown below her.
She begins to wither each day that passes.
With no sun to speak of,
No rain to shower life.
As the months pass her by, a strange desire crosses each day,
A longing to return to the vase that held her,
That vase, cruel, yes, but realistic.
Impossible to survive through what is of now.
Yet with such courage,
She does not retreat.
As weeks have passed, as she stands in one petal,
A remarkable event.
The clouds begin to ooze a gentle mist,
The sun seeking through each rain drop that flakes.
The flower wields this prolonged moment.
For the growth is not sudden.
As the passing of change progresses,
Each petal is renewed.
The flower stands once more on her own,
Bees guarding the bright plant they thought to be soon born.
A life, her own, returns to the flowers true anatomy.
A thriving land, the new rain, the loud sun.
No longer that cold, dark cubicle,
Absorbed by the one vase,
Which held no area to own.
Now, no more words to scribble of that time.
The flowers petals dry, her colors anew.
And all as once envisioned
Brought to be true.