The Flower Vase
A flower vase stood firm on the table, in the middle of the room,
Freshly scented roses, occupied the nest, during the prime of their bloom,
I viewed the flaunting petals with bliss, a delicacy that makes me swoon,
Slow and fierce, the flowers die and soon, long gone.
The empty vase still stood firm and I was jealous,
Robust before the tender shunned flowers; she was zealous,
Beauty, weary and worn out, though the clay-woven shell reaped hope,
Handpicked lilies, ripe and nice, later, fill the barren well, for its emptiness to cope.
I saw something special; something I’ve never seen before,
An understanding for life, from a simple flower vase,
The world we live in, sturdy and bold, unyielding to any,
The love fluffed in, timid and graceful, beautifying the lives of many.
But, she withers out, she withers out faster, before the well-built earthen pot,
A millennium of lovers coming by, patronising love and fading, one among the lot,
I could accuse life for love’s unfair loss over this bout,
But then I think, but then I think,
How beautiful shall be a flower vase, without the kiss of flowers in it?