Tale of a Crimson Flower

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.

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