The Flower

The flower was a nymph-like beauty,

Red, Violent, full of love and lust.

It was born like an expectation,

Out of memory and conviction.

It had the memory of

A young man who came running,

Smelled, Kissed, then slowly

Walked back to the street.

It had the conviction that

A flower could metamorphose

Into a star, with the roots

Always wet, deep, knowing.

And so it lived and lived

Until it decided to die soft;

The petals simply fell out smiling

While petals were still revelling.


*this poem is dedicated to Aswathy and Chintan, who took great pains to explain to me why and how it is "tellingly erotic"