“Life Bears Flowers of Every Shade”

Life bears flowers of every shade,
Some with beauty never to fade,
Some that last but a moment,
Crowned in glory heaven sent,
Some flourish in the dark of night,
And yet blossom pure and white,
Some have raiment modest,
While others humble the rest,
Some glisteningly sway,
In the mist of a new day,
Dripping diamond drops of dew,
In ecstatic nirvana of the new,
Others hide their beauty well,
Till a gentle wind rises in a swell,
Bringing beauty hid to sight,
But still present even at night,
The fragrant scent,
More glorious than any star-beam's glint,
A pure calming presence,
That is its essence,
But even roses are cumbered with thorn,
Showing that even beauty is torn,
By the woes that abound,
Surrounding the good all around,
"But a rose",
As the Spearshaker's saying goes,
Speaking of its beauty and fame,
"By any other name,"
"Would still smell as sweet,"
Consider the lotus upon the lake,
When before day break,
It sits crowned upon the glass,
Residing before its perish mass,
Giving glory to heaven above,
In tokens of fragrance and love,
Tokens of beauty and grace,
Enshrining glory in its face,
Reflected upon the water dark,
As it leaves its ivory mark,
And what of the lily of the field,
Which wind and tempest doth wield,
Before eye and sight,
Better than any blade may fight,
With its pure slice,
Of zealous intoxication to splice,
Into mortal mind the thought,
Of at what cost they were bought,
A waving symbol of purity,
Reminding men of their iniquity,
And what of wind,
That does send,
Rippling golden hue,
To eye from blossoms new,
As mortals hiatus upon the wave,
Of scent from a million small lions brave,
Dancing upon a field of green,
In a brilliant golden sheen,
And what of the Titan Arum’s bloom,
Whose glory in size can fill a room,
But would leave it vacant,
From its horrendous scent,
Hell bent flower of the dead,
In whom hideous beauty is wed,
But what smells like corpse to man,
Is fragrance sweet to those that can,
Pollinate this king of flowers,
When it plumes up into a rare tower,
Called “corpse flower” for its scent,
Reminisce of body torn and rent,
And left out to rot,
Under bright luminary hot,
But all the flos floris of this life,
Blooming amid peace, amid strife,
Blooming in light of day,
Whether bright or grey,
Blooming in night,
Whether dark with fright,
Or in moonlet scintillating,
As nightingales sing,
Their somber song in glory,
To moonlit matron hoary,
In a duet of song and sight,
To the dweller of light,
Who reigns from the throne,
From which all light is shone,
But in all the flowers of humanity,
Every color, scent, shape, that we can see,
Life comes in every shade,
From the green of a blade,
Of some humble budding stock,
Pressing up from weathered rock,
To the incandescent hue,
Of hellebores enswathed in dew,
And when we pause to remember,
Whether in cold of December,
Or in height of summer heat,
May we always welcome and greet,
The thought that mortal men,
Is like a rose thorned in sin,
Pricking both enemy and friend,
With our pernicious blend,
Of the noble with the ill,
Living guided by mortal will,
But we have been kissed,
By the great horticulturist,
Who reigns from heaven above,
From throne of matchless love,
To be free some day,
From that which otherwise would slay,
Both those who live for the right,
And those who relish the night,
Remember this O’ humanity,
The greatest flower you may see,
On this terrestrial sphere,
Which man holds so dear,
Is the beauty of a life,
Saved from the strife filled knife,
Of the enemies of souls,
Who’s heart is black consuming coals,
For we are saved by the mighty lamb,
The great glorious “I AM”