It was a tiny lavender blossom
Insignificant among the creme-de-la-creme of floral beauties
Innocently finding its unpopularity, difficult to comprehend;
It longed not to be the cynosure of eyes that passed by
But it wondered why nobody was quixotic enough to like it
When all the buds of the same plant were looked at in awe;
It waited and waited for the soft touch of fingers
The awaited day dawned in glory,
A group of maidens with a penchant for blooms
Crowded the plant like butterflies
Plucked and trampled, admired and shunned-
All but one sylph with a genial, radiant smile, angelic!
She took the flower in her hand, took it to her lips,
Quiver! Pink labial touch!
But while it was still floatin in the heavens- her soft palms,
She left it in the foliage of a bush,
“You look better there, in your home”
Alas! I had better been an atrophy!