To be a small flower
In a vase holding a pretty bunch
Of the biggest, most gorgeous ones,
Is as good as to not be in it.

What was the gardener thinking,
When they picked the blossoms
That would stand proudly on the tabletop?
It is hard not to wonder whether
Their choice of this unremarkable flower
Was nothing more than a lapse in judgement,
Or born of a moment of distraction.

The red roses stand
In full, majestic bloom,
They are the joy and pride of the room,
Flanked by the yellow and white lilies –
And amidst them all, in a corner
At the neck of the stunning vase,
An almost wilting, pale flower,
Past the glory of whatever smidge of beauty,
It might have once possessed.

To be that small flower
In that vase holding that pretty bunch
Is to not be in it at all.