The Flower and the Plucker


Love is a thing born with different conceptions

The pious art of appreciation replaced with art of possession

So the flower you loved and you plucked

Failing to understand that you unknowingly fucked

Fucked its ability to mesmerise the surroundings with its fragrance

Curbed its ability to bloom from within

Disturbed its ability from being the protagonist of its story

But all this rage translates into remorse

When one gets to know the plucker was really close

He plucked the flower to keep it close

Expected it to be fragrant; doesn’t that sound morose?

The flower withered what else could take place

The lost charisma and hopelessness was only thing it could embrace

Not only one, there are many flowers with hindered growth

Accustoming to the custom although being loath

One man’s food should not become other man’s poison

But the ones practising possession hardly admires this thought with compassion.

Staunchly stuck by what to do and what not to do

To hate the fatal or let that agitation go

So you then realise there aren’t existentially a black or a white

Sometimes grey is the only right

Grey is the only right.

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This Poems Story

While love of all the emotions remains the topnotch and undefeated power, it is often misunderstood. This poem is in search of truest and pristine meaning of love.