Little flowers of a little plant;
Flowers of the brightest color,
Bright and glowing, with the sun,
Having bloomed out slowly, painfully,
Breaking out of the hard shell,
Just to see the world; to live.

The flowers, they realize, they know,
They know the transience of life,
Yet all days are joyful, lively,
The earth is divine, the sky pristine,
They are drunk with giddy optimism,
And live on till the day comes:
The climax, the end, the last verse.

And then, suddenly they shrivel,
As if they never were: the colors gone,
The joy, the beauty lost forever,
Into oblivion. Content; without sorrow.

Constructive Criticism is Valued.

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