A Raw Almond
I have gotten to see
These snow cones flavoured with rose syrup
These petals in such adorable bunches
Smiling at me with all their might, though
What you seem to me
Is something like a raw almond,
Barely unfolded even as a flower,
A bud that never reached fruition.
And perhaps so
You have spent your life
Stuck to the stem,
Emanating though
This unusual fragrance(?) of your own;
I was astonished to know that
One could even be blinded by a scent.
You seem to surround yourself with flowers,
And these flowers too
Allow you of their company, for
In their eyes perhaps
You have already bloomed.
Or you do when you are with them,
So it is there that you stay
And perhaps attempt to forget your
Seemingly decaying state of unfurling
(or can I even call it that)
In the sight of their grinning blossom,
Their flawless stature,
Making their flourishing your own.
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It is better I think
That you stay with them than me;
A flower can never harm another,
For petal knows petal,
Thorn knows thorn, and
Root nourishes root
Willingly.
What place in all this doth have
My hands and my eyes?
They are already
Poisoned and bloodstained,
Paralysed and too wounded
To hold that rose again.
Or is it that the flowers surround you?
If indeed there is something
Surrounded by bouquets,
Is it then not more precious
Than the bunch themselves?
A stream is,
however still,
Flowing nevertheless.
And not every one of them is
Meant to converge into a river.
Although most of them
Trickle into the ground
Never to be seen again,
Never to reflect back a strand of sun,
Some might stay,
And save man from drought
When summer arrives.
