Waiter? There's an abstract in my poem.

The Flower

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A Flower emerges from the sands of existence,

etched by the winds of time.

It witnesses all-

monsters and gladiators

and stars swallowed from air,

power that rises

and kingdoms that crumble.

It witnesses all from its creation.

---

The Flower battles existence,

resisting resistance.

It’s evolution, a revolution awaiting ablution.

A Flower wilts to bloom again.

---

I fall to my knees to avoid the gaze.

A thousand eyes,

watching, waiting, blinking, expecting.

I rise again and crawl towards salvation,

evolution, the revolution in motion.

---

Beauty is frail.

The Flower is weary.

How long ‘til the winds shift,

and it is no more or much more?