The Flower

The solitary thing sits alone,
with curling petals
and drying leaves.
The solitary thing was once
so sweet.
But the pluck of luck
didn’t favor its stem
and there it lays,
a rejected dream.

But see – a rose by any other name
wouldn’t smell as sweet,
for the idea of the plant
is what laid it to rest.
Perhaps by chance
if it had bloomed earlier
or later,
been brighter
or darker,
it might not have taken a fall from grace,
but now it lays in a lonely vase.

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