Oh fire in my heart, ice in my soul.
They do not balance my existence.
The stem, the thorn, the pedal and the seed make a flower.
Without one, will it still be beautiful?
Which shall turn first though, the heart or the soul?
Shall my heart grow cold or my soul burn?

My attention drawn away.
The bright light ahead beckons.
The flower pulses with life: my life.
The stem, green and supports.
The thorn, sharp and ready to prick.
The pedals, a bright white with vibrant pink.
The seed, full of life.
All to the utmost perfection of function.
To Be.