I am but a flower.
Blossoming with blessed care,
Wilting into nothing without.

A garden works much like life;
It takes time and love,
to grow even a single bud.

But when all bloom without me,
I wonder...
What care are these other buds receiving
That I am not?
Why do I not also bloom?

Was it something I did?
I have not done anything different,
Than anyone else.

I must have been missed, overlooked,
This rosebush has many others than me.

So I wait, day after day,
Thinking that soon, I’ll feel my velvet veins fill with life.
I wait with joy, for the day to finally come...

Only, the rain that once aided my life,
It’s different, somehow has congealed.
It now hinders me, shreds my wilted wings.

So, when will sun shine upon my petals?
Relinquishing them from their desert state,
Unfurling them like the delicate red feathers,
Of a baby bird hatching too late...