Withering Flower

Look at my withering flower grow,

Look at blossom, look at it show

Its radiant colours, its light, its height.

How sad to see, but what a delight.

My withering flower which was held in my hand,

Received no judgement; no reprimand.

And yet, you killed it; you wanted it gone.

Why? Why? What have I done?

This withering flower, it wanted to fall.

It had patience, but it commited to stall

So that you could come along with some water and food

Which would fill its tummy; make it feel good.

It waited, it waited, for the sun to shine.

But the sun had other plans, it had drawn a line

Between me, myself and my withering flower

So that we could grow braver, so that we couldn't cower.

But my flower, which had blossomed, died and bloomed,

Desired love above all else; it knew no gloom.

Its life continues somewhere inside

A heart with power; a heart with stride.

No longer does my flower wish for rain,

No longer does my flower wait for sunshine again.

It only grows and grows with love within

Its broken petals and its radiant skin.