Fate

Little does it know its fate
Funeral, Festival, or date

The innocent bud
That blooms into a flower

Ruthless murdered in its prime

For offerings, for love,  

for sympathy, for apology

Emoting for the one that ruthlessly 

Took his life...

Fate of a flower

The innocent swelling,
Turning to a bud.
Clinging to each other,
Tender and young petals.
As time pass by,
More confident it becomes.

It strives to be free..
Yet, holds on to the root.
It opens up slowly...
One after the other
The petals tastes liberty.

Gaining confidence,
The seconds follow,
In succession another,
Until all the petals are free.

 It breaths the air,
 And feels the kiss of the sun,
Carelessly it flaunts it beauty.

Not knowing its fate
Cut before its golden prime.

For festivity, for love, for funeral, for life.



(Photo taken by Rajya Lakshmi)

(Trying poetry in 6,5,4,3,2,1 line form)