The flower, it is beautiful.
I gaze at it lovingly.
It's beautiful colors,
Vibrant and striking.
The many petals, shaped so imperfectly,
And it makes it perfect.
The colors, as if a child had been given a paintbrush.
And made it beautiful.
I can feel it's soft petals.
Feel the delicate texture, beneath my fingers.
I can fell the veins of the petals,
And I run my fingers over them.
I can feel all the colors,
Seeping through.
It's gorgeous and perfect in every way.
I rip the petals off one by one,
And all at once.
I tear one in two.
I crumple one in my hand.
I crush one with my foot.
I shred one with my fingers.
And I leave one alone.
Maybe it was destined to be alone.
Maybe some god
or angel,
Sitting on a cloud,
"This petal will not be destroyed.
It will live on forever, and be beautiful and perfect always."
I drop it on the ground,
And walk away.
And a man treads upon it,
Running after his wife.
It flies to the road,
And gets run over by a semi.