Flowers

There is a man
He lives somewhere,
In an apartment
That he presumably bought
Presumably using money that
He attained presumably through a job.
None of it matters.
The thing that matters is the fact:
He has a window box
Full of vibrant flowers.
The man, who does not matter,
Works 9-5 in a cubicle,
A mindless cog.
Yet he has flowers.
7 flowers.
The first of which, is a rose.
It’s lovely and red
Rich and soft.
But it’s thorns have overgrown
And it’s dangerous.
He does not touch the rose,
He is afraid.
There is also a stalk of lavender.
It has the longest stem,
Towering over the others.
They grow towards it.
But it feels too tall.
Too out of place,
Lonely up in the clouds
There is a daisy,
Simple and beautiful.
But it is too simple.
If flowers could think,
Would she worry
That others may get
Bored of her?
The bluebell is slight,
Holds a simple elegance,
Yet it grows heavier with each day.
It fears it will break.
There’s a sunflower.
She is bright, growing fast.
She leans to the light and
Never droops.
But she doesn’t want to fade.
She is scared of the end of the summer
There are 2 tulips,
Vibrant, bold,
And they glisten in every weather.
But do they worry
That the other is the spare?
The last is barely a flower at all.
A dandelion sprouted from the corner,
Swaying in the breeze alone,
And she sees the other flowers,
Wants to grow petals,
Wants to smell sweet,
To look nice.
The other flowers grow away from her.
She sways softly in the corner,
As she waits for the wind to carry her away.