The Flower

There is a flower

Its petals are elegant and they roll outward gloriously like

Arms and they revel in the sun.

This is May, however.

This beautiful life will not be as ornamented 

Come the bitter of October.

 What a detestable time for the flower,

Its magnificence bloomed over time 

Only to be shrivelled and turn dark

As the cold envelopes the once glorious arms

Come the bitter of October. 

In a way, everyone is a flower.

There is such dignity, such poshness 

That possesses the way one carries on

Day after Day. 

You were the sunlight that warmed me,

All I wanted was to wrap my glorious arms

Around your inviting warmth and calm.

But come the bitter of October, 

You became not as warm.

Come the bitter of October,

I, the flower brittled, alone 

And you, the had been sun,

Became the clouds with a vehemence I cannot forgive. 

Now it is November,

But I look to the months to come,

because my sun will come again.