the hibiscus flower.

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When I asked about the hibiscus flower, I was enmeshed and engraved in disillusionment, watching fingers point at pale, scarlet delicate petals. I knew it was a dishonest name for a flower, for the tea I drank on winter nights did not possibly appeal to such delicacy

When time passed and I happened to come across the real one; cruel, shrivelled, reserved, painted in deep burgundy— I knew it was it what touched my lips so cunningly. I knew it was this kind of cruelty that dissolves in the love of boiling water, it couldn’t be anything else.

Beings on this gorgeous earth seem to have the signature of their essence upon their form. And like the hibiscus, I must be. I wonder if one can recognise my essence from how my eyes shine when they grow towards the sun, and how I become feathery and lightweight in the face of ancient love, and how my face crumples when all is so beautiful and wondrous.

I hope all these tell honest stories about me.
going with grace in an inscrutable world.

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