Waiter? There's an abstract in my poem.
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,
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?