The most beautiful flower

Within a field of growing weeds and brown leaves

It seems to take up all the light

besides all the dead and despair around it

Its petals are moist and the colors seem to change
to whatever they need to protect themselves from.

But, the blossom is too beautiful. 

Too consumingly appealing to whomever laid their eyes on it.

The sun’s rays were getting jealous and did no longer
want to shine on the pleasing leaves -
or on the strong roots or its inviting colors -
as they took away their shine and

were now filled with contempt.
Most of all the rays were jealous of what the flower could do.

Embezzle. Inspire and create. Dazzle.

It dazzled me.
The flower could not only extract happiness from its surroundings but it also gave.

It gave love. Love and comfort and happiness, friendship and enjoyment.
It gave a way for men to see through the bad and look at the good.

It tasted so sweet.



The flower fought, spurting out at some cautious moment
but it could not win

For it needed the rays gentle touch to grow and to

Exist.
Long after men spoke of the waste.

How such a beauty had perished,

And its power was no longer there to greet them like an old friend.

It was now only a myth,

One that no one really could remember

as it felt like a dimly lit memory,
one that played a yet unknown role in whatever faith there is to come.
It was not the beauty that men remembered now.

Only the waste.

As the good leaves no scars, and is scarcely treasured how it should.

But oh the waste. They spoke.
Such a waste.