A flower opened up to a passerby
And lay bare the prose written on its leaves
Every tactile line a strain of thought
Nurtured by the sun and soil and dew
The passerby came and cast an eye
On the grass, on the foliage of the tree
Passing quickly through the forest, humid and hot,
Passing by the beauty tried and true
If time had wings, must it necessarily fly?
Why not stop and enjoy the flower like a bee?
The petals grow tired, and shall wither and rot
The next time opens the eye of the moon
The flower opened up to a passerby
and watched the visitor who could not see
and bent its head in disappointed nod:
'Tis life, 'Tis death, 'Tis existential doom.
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