The Flower
A flower falls on a hidden path,
That twists and turns around.
It lays so quietly all alone,
Barely touching the ground.
A single stem with a simple bud,
That's lost forever more;
Soon to die and never bloom,
Never knowing what's in store.
And as the fog creeps up the mountain,
To cover all in sight;
The flower can only sit there,
And is soon consumed by white.
Even though its life is young,
And it hasn't met the sun;
The saddest part of all must be,
The flower's life is almost done.
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