The thorns that you were caught in,
The petals that you destroyed,
The leaves that fell, crumpled, lay on the ground.

But the sunlight still nurtures a new sap,
The air sustains it's nutrition,
Water still nourishes the bud that grows.

A new flower will blossom,
Just like the old, weathered or the destroyed;
The same fate sealed for all, through all of time:

One: To grow old, shrivel and die;
Two: To weather at their peak and rot;
Three: To be used as decor and be thrown away;

Can we call it a fate sealed with the option of three doors?
Are these the clutches of nature's cruelty?
Or is it that, 'such is life'?

--
She had resigned herself to ruthless fate.
For she'd been through all three doors;
And was convinced it's a conspiracy of the cosmos;

She had chosen door Three,
And she walked out with her pride.

She was asked to try door Two,
And was still alive when she crawled out.

Enraged, they shoved her through door One,
And found her still form was breathing--

Till merciless time silenced her for good.
--

Her black-blue bruises,
Her decaying soul and
Her wrinkles of experience are proof--

*An end will always come to what grows...