To dam water that flows

to a withering rose

is a sin.

 

To release a flood

to a drenched shrub

is a sin.

 

For both will die

whether wet or dry.

 

Though the mystery

that makes my petals fall,

that makes me feel so small;

 

Would you release a flood

to save a rose

and murder a shrub?

 

Would you dam a stream

to save a shrub

and murder a rose?

 

The constant question

should I let myself wither,

or should I let myself grow?

 

In thirsty dust I am loved by a shrub

who begs me not to let them drown.

 

My decay is beautiful to him.

 

He is use to the soaked leaves he holds

unaware of the pain heat bestows.

 

To save myself and murder my love,

to murder myself and save my love?

 

Sadly, love is not a choice.

It's a demise.