I am guilty

to carry the flower's scent with me,

now the flower asks me

what right I had, to take what someone else could have?

The flower bloomed all alone

but standing fast, knowing someone will pass by

and when didn't, doubting but yet standing.

Was I playful, regardless, hasty,

did I know how to preserve the scent,

not just in mind but dreams, in life's bedrock?

Here I am, a forlorn struggling poet,

who lacks the patience to steep in the loved fragrance,

who lacks the perseverance of love.

The flower, will she ever forgive me?

02/25/2019

Posted on 02/25/2019
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