His world came to be
while another's ceased to see.
His flower was freshly plucked
while another's was recently crushed.
Unknowing, he too-one day
Would drift away.
...What a shame
His simple but enticing scent
Would soon be expected to pay rent.
His velvety soft petals
Would wither through life.
Only to be sped up, by societal strife.
Bound to return to the soil.
He must first learn to toil.
As his roots yearned,
two choices remained unturned.
Would he dare challenge the sun?
And be left as parched
as a dried-up bun.
Or would he tilt towards shade?
And decompose, forever afraid.
As time comes to an end.
His roots attempt to mend.
The next will take his spot.
How might he write his plot?