Betrayal of Blossoms

Some days poetry flows sometimes it is just words. In the final spring - a poet yearned for an immaculate blossom, for his fingertips to bring a painting into life - to meticulously cultivate and craft a masterpiece. I recall an opal oasis full of pearl petals, glittering with rows of diamond orchids, citrine marigolds, moonstone lotuses, and garnet roses surrounded by amethyst lavender and sapphire bluebells. craving for his mastery. In a distant meadow, consumed with faithless flock grazing dead leaves - there you bloomed from bronze roots, an enchanting flower held by an emerald sepal. In your flattery, he became a willing devotee, seduced by the scent of your paradisiacal petals. But in your admiration he neglected his selfless blooms, unaware of wicked weeds wandering in eidolic fields. At sunset he would mirror the stars and follow you like fireflies at midnight, Serenade you with mystical lullabies, evoking a sense of serenity, but in the deception of dawn you prioritised the sun, over his soothing moonlight, so you wilted, withering, dripping in dewdrops. In your servitude, he placed you in the greenhouse of his heart, to protect you from the arrival of autumn, but gaslighting gardeners, sliced all of his intimate stems, allowing satanic rain to poison your spirit. In the darkness, which dilates his eyes, the pain still penetrates like a bitter blade and he has become a forgotten gardener, with dead seeds of scepticism sowed into his soul.