I will not be a flower to reckon
The stare of every passerby
Surviving in the storm of flimsy praise
Or be a candid for the paparazzi
Or endure the burning flames
Of scorching eyes or teeming hurlyburly
In summer, its bloom with vivid colours
A bud into a blossom
Rosy, flashy, glowy
Alluring tourists, frenemies, scabs
Swelling from tender bud to bloom
It’s outer beauty viral
Concealing the gnawing teeth of the caterpillar
Oblivion of it’s frigility and swift of the clock
The scythe of time, it can not block
In autumn, against time’s scythe
The drought of brownish yellowed leaves
No tide of tourists again
No sound of usual fanfare
Or a rash of the paparazzi
Once a lofty tree, now a bow
Once a bloom, now dead and withered
Once flushy, now a tattered leave
In the drought, by the caterpillar
Against time’s scythe,
I will simply wither and decay
No trace memory mayhaps but a few
