The Corpse Flower

He is a proud young man

Mysterious in ways more than a million.

Harbors a whole universe within

The one that is accessible to none.

A passel of thoughts take form in him each day

And a few each minute die.

He hides the remains of which carefully

And on these, his existence rely.

His eyes, they speak in size, 

But words, they often deceive.

His silence laments the cries of a chaos

But his body lacks courage to confront.

Utter shame how the elusive emotions decay-

Like an Ephema they live and buzz a while,

They conceive a new chaos each day

These perish as the Sun sets on the hay.

Each day a new world is born 

And few each minute die.

There stands the man I know

Tall and proud, on the heap of death,

The ‘Corpse Flower’ he holds within

Aloof and rare, he lies on the grass like a wreath.

Endurance is the route that leads to him

Acceptance is the key to possess him.

For they are all born like him

But most each minute die.


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