The Flower

Standing alone in the garden is a dispirited flower
Thinking its life a wasted one;
For it to feel so is a story behind
The lines that follow reveal its mind

Seeing this world in fresh blossom
Important it felt, for it inspired many
A bard to pen a new song
A composer to unveil new notes
And many more at their first glance

The bees fed on its nectar
Carrying its fragrance afar
It thought how lucky it was
And pitied the non-flowering grass

It lived in merry and joy
With its image seizing many hearts and minds
For ever this should stay, it thought
But imminent were the things that followed.

There was soon no hovering of bees
No bard describing its fading color
No composer writing its unhappy notes
And no one indeed near

Strange are the ways of the world it thought
It revolves around you at prime
And deserts you when it is time.