And once again,
The white flower I was holding
Withered away.

Far away
In the fresh grassland,
I saw a bud swaying.

Was it real
Or just me that
To me it was waving?

So assuming that
I waved back to it,
But pulled back quickly my hand.

My fear returned,
"In the 'guise of a little bud
Could it be the butterwort plant!"

Oh what's this!
The tiny bud's petals
Were spreading so-slowly.

Its magic blooming,
Hues of white so pure,
The touch must be holy!

There it happened,
I took a step forward,
Enchanted by it's glistening.

Oh so scared!
But I stayed on the move,
As if to me it was calling.

I was there,
Extending my hands to it,
Being careful not to bruise.

It was smiling
Cheery- telling me stories,
I was also feeling on the loose.

In no time
Its petals were tainted with
My colors; I didn't see.

And my hands
Were also full of fragrance
Of this flower so serene.

It was near,
'cause of me being alien,
That it's veins started getting pale.

The day came
When I bled my true colors,
That pretty white turned black and stale.

Though I knew
From the start, it would happen,
If too near I pose.

What to do!
My presence, so poisonous,
Is destined to kill anything close.

Then I paused
And all the past
Started to reel in so fast.

And I accepted
The bitter truth of my life,
That nothing is to last.

And that's how,
The white flower I was holding
Withered away.


© bani745