Flower

It is hard to imagine you, a perfect thing.

For there is no flower which is perfect.

Even the most beautiful ones wither and die away.

From the second the stem is snapped

producing that crisp crackling noise

as water from your veins mists out from the break.

The water that gave you life

that made you strong

that made you so tall and beautiful.

That water that carried minerals to you

that gave you thorns,

that gave you leaves

that gave you a wonderful scent

that gave you beautiful petals to display yourself to the world.

That made you love.

You begin to die.

Your petals whither

you change shade from a beautiful shade to an ugly brown

the strong neck that carried your head becomes weak and pendulous,

and you are discarded and forgotten.

But there is another kind of flower,

which people don't see as true beauty.

It is manufactured, not grown.

It is strong and crisp forever, but it does not smell of beauty

It is love.

But it is artificial. 

So how is my love so everlasting,

it is not artificial, it is alive,

it does not whither and die and it smells of beauty,

it is crisp and strong and never fading.