Not ugly nor pretty,
Not hidden nor was it easily spotted.
It's colors remain to be unknown,
All she could do is wait,
Wait for it to mature and grow,
To stretch out itself,
Revealing it's true self,
For all to admire,
For all to take in it's sweet scent,
For bees to come visit it,
To be welcomed warmly with plentiful of sweet nectar.
But soon it starts to wither,
It's color dulls off like a beautiful lady that develops wrinkles,
And less people see the glamour and beauty it once had.
Even bees stop paying it visits,
For there is no longer any sweet smelling and sweet tasting nectar.
The flower then losses its life with each passing minute and hours later it dries up and falls to the ground,
Now to serve another purpose to the ecological system,
To help the tree from which it came from
By being manure.
And soon arises another bud,
A bud bound to suffer the same fate
As the bud of the little she.
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