How soon the pretty flower wilts
When the sun bows and totters back.
It’s head so sadly bends and tilts
Too heavy for its aged and tired back.
It questions why this has to be,
Yet knows the starkest answer true.
Its own demise allows its eyes to see
That the old always gives way to the new.
Unable to find a key to a different door,
The flower collapses into the cold, wet ground.
Its essence rises into something more
Than the flower’s mind would e’er have found.
So many seas to swim and fly above,
The mountains of the bonny earth for it to see.
Death had spared its eyes for purest love.
Within it the flower and the universe could be.
No more trapped by conventions of the mind,
The past, present and all else were at its touch.
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