On why that a flower has to wither:
I take my stand--it withers not at all
But what's, in our hearts, felt with less of care
When the best of things remain in the soul;
In every knowing's find with its new eyes,
A flower keeps growing inside of us.
Despite what the picture tells otherwise
It always be the thing that it once was:
Pure and innocent like the sweet embrace
Of love's first kiss--what freely it can give
That blossoms everywhere upon the face
Of someone's life--with love it has to live.
So long as there is much to take away
Is why the needs to nurture it to stay.