Flowers don’t describe me any longer.
Try something stronger:
perhaps I am a painted diamond,
or a pen run dry.
Maybe if I try real hard,
I’m a penguin that can fly.

A sword without a blade,
a knife without a point.

I am a songless bird
with a quiet pride,
and, though I happen to be broken,
I am everlasting
through the winds and rains.

I may be able to keep you out,
but I sure can’t keep me in.
My heart is shining, blazing,
and I can see you’re cold.

Or maybe that’s all illusion-
And yet,
I am a flower, after all.

The End

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