On the verge of death, a mighty star,
Conceived a delicate flower.

Dainty, pure, and bright,
Her soul alit by the last light.

Left in a field both radiant and vile,
She bloomed eternal but servile.

A little droopy, a little broke, and plenty shunned,
Yet she followed every movement of her sun.

Seeking blindly, from an orb long dead,
Oblivious in the shadow of the flame she within bred.

Every day she rose high in futile life,
To die at the close of dusk in steady strife.

Every night, a shot of forget-me-not,
And amnesia cleansed her nigh of rot.

So she woke up, a little crooked, each day,
Steady, even as the sun slowly fades away.

Thriving on hope engraved in her core,
A stray ray stolen from the dying beam of the sunny soul.

Daughter of her mother’s sadness,
She blooms even in absence.

The epitome of foolish hope and silly Power—
She is a wilted sunflower.