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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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.