Roses can be White
Yellow or shades of Pink
But the Red are more expensive
Or so florists like to think

The seeds look very similar
Whenever you plant your borders
But once they show their truer form
It's too late to change your order

The withered cage
Of a flowering bush
In a bent posture
Fatigued of mortality

A mere portrayal
That remains
Of a spirited
Crimson past

A song that is now unsung
As a state of remembrance

And how delightful is it
To see a new leafy sprout
Young and sprightly
One that will flourish
To tell a new tale
For such has always been
The resolve of life

The moon amidst
the celebrations of stars
still in its proverbial stance
only the eye no fingers!

If there ever a moment of flower
let it be today the rose
in the tips of the fingers!

//A tear behind a smile
—it's pretty flower waters
remind me on how to cry
Blurred in between the lines
of pretending to be fine

We are all sometimes this flower
growing in amongst ashes
Do not look down on my prowess
not all brave heroes started off,
without once feeling like cowards

But given the right hour;
soon you shall conquer

I see the beauty flowers show;
imagine in the wild—
My oversight before July
had been a blindness mild.
The beetle brought her grandness by
erupting sight untold—

the flower
holding on to the soil
with what's left from
its' root, lost in turmoil
lost most of it
lost to the attacks
of its own species
lost when it trusted
them the most, because
the flower didn't fit in

In due season, the yesteryears
of what once youth could be:

—I've been young in love
—an old soul, but of a young heart

Like as a child likens their time to being
plenty as when the sun is in their eyes
Our youthful days have come to set,
a flower in the skins of being a beautiful
fragile being

I'd be like you see of my nature,
twisting to sun of my creator
We are all beautiful flowers—
in the grounds of time, and life
Planted with purpose; we grow, we live,
wither off, and eventually die

                           ~This is all our lives