The Flowers

A gardenful of flowers
Uniformly pink
With hues of gold
Embellishing from within
Petals open
The pollen exposed
Watching the sun
Cross above

A hand plucks one
Smells the fragrance
Taking in deeply
As memories galore
Of lovely sunshine
And beautiful moonlight
Of childhood days
And the happy adolescence

Another plucked
By an anxious lover
To see if he loves me
Or loves me not, dear
Plucking each petal
Hoping for the odd one
To tell her he does
Do not fear

A few more go
To make a bouquet
Creating a riot
Of beautiful colours
To be given to someone
Loved or feared
To be kept near
The heart's centre

The ones who remain
Sway in the breeze
Still safe, untouched
Withering naturally
Why not me
They think wonderingly
I am made the same way
As all those who went away

Their lives seem emblazened
In a path of glory
To be handpicked
To be nurtured carefully
And yet they died
As naturally
Forgotten once their purpose
Was served fully

Wishing they had
Remained free
Of this attention
Forced as it had been
First there was joy
Happiness and glee
And then came the time
They were forgotten likely

Rotting in bouquets
Torn of petals
Dumped and crushed
In the hands that loved
Their purpose served
They were needed no more
These beautiful flowers
That were cherished once before.