I

Not every flower is worth it

Even if it holds the promise of honey,

The butterfly that flew into the alley

Chasing the bounty hidden in pots

On six feet by three balconies

Did not quite know that profound truth.

When the grenades burst,

And the guns fired deafeningly,

The butterfly was caught unawares –

Nobody would have known of its fallacy

Except for the beautiful carcass

That gave away the poignant truth.

II

A leaf falls off a bough

Of a tree on the edge of a cliff.

It is still in its prime,

A fresh young thing.

The summer evening

Breathes gently on the leaf,

Sending it wafting,

Never quite landing –

Farther into a downfall

That will see it in the river

Far below.

The leaf changes colour

On its journey down,

Where it is destined

To meet its final resting place.

It wilts a faint yellow on the edges

As it is carried more swiftly now,

By the colder wind of the frigid evening.

When it meets its end,

The leaf is a brittle thing,

Far removed from the tree

It fell off from.

The tree remains high up there –

While it is now a lowly leaf

Ripped by the jagged rock

On which it comes to rest;

Except, in rest lies its disintegration.