She is born of earth.
But the other rejects its own nature.

Her body Is a muse.
But the other has no breath of its own
To inspire.

She opens up
To the rays of the morning.
But the rising of the sun
Does not excite the latter.

She dances
With the whispers of the wind.
But stiff and stifled  
The other is not tickled.

But what of the soft perfume
That lends charm
To even the most common daisies?

What little charm the other has
Are fabricated
By the hands of man

This other
In the struggle
For a life not its own
Is perverted into paralysis
And paralyzed in pretense

She is The Lily of The Valley.
But you are a plastic flower.