The Pristine Penman

Once I saw a flower as crimson as blood, Nostrils overflowing with an olfactory flood. It had unspoken secrets that I pined to touch, With those fluttering petals of its, it did not speak much. I held the flower so dear to my heart, you see, Often searched within, the truth of its verity. Strange silence-veiled truth and identity, Which I quite mistook to be its vanity. Slowly all the petals turned brown and then black, “What,” I wondered, “O flower, do you lack?” Was my love inadequate to keep it remain red? And these queer thoughts of mine, drenched me in dread. And I saw no flower since, as crimson as it. I touched no other secret, nor did commit Myself to another such, as that petaled lover. Etched in me the tale of the crimson flower. -