The beautiful flower

The beautiful flower
Had grown up
Pampered and loved
In security.
To one day
Be plucked apart.

Its faith fell
Its bubble burst
It was dejected
But then the
Bestower of such inhumanity
Gently wrapped it
In beautiful paper
Cushioned it
In soft layers
And sprayed it
With calm water
The flower
Young and naive
Dared to hope again.

The beautiful flower
Grew up all over again
When its veins
Began turning black
And its beauty
Withered slowly
Its aroma
Became stale
And the
Bestower of such kindness
Unwrapped it
And threw it away
In gravel and mud
Where it never hoped again.


13 thoughts on “The beautiful flower

  1. You know it’s the fate of flowers to wither and blacken.
    To fall into the mud after surrendering all their vitality to the seeds of what will come.

    Maybe it’s the fate of everything.

  2. Hope has a way of creeping back in when you’d thought it was extinguished. If you live long enough to let it.

    I’m in my 50s and have seen many women I know grow old.

    The beautiful ones do it the toughest. They go through much of their life not even realising how much easier their attractiveness has made things for them until they lose it. Unless they find a new way of relating to people they can become bitter and nasty.

    With men it seems to be ambition that crushes them in middle age. One day they wake up and realise they are too old to achieve all those things they dreamed of. They only lived for their ambitions and now they’ve lost them. Some decide to stop living.

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