When it’s not full and flourished,

the reaper will cut its stem and let it sink to the bottom of the lake;

perhaps left there to be eaten by the worms that have been there all their lives,

for they are comfortable with the dirt and the muck and the rocks. And the blossom will wilt and cry, shed its pollen tears, for though it has never felt like a flower,

it has always risen above the lilies and the water and the bugs,

in the fatal sunlight that always seems too hot on its leaves, and too dry on its petals. 

But for now its bud is blooming, and periwinkle petals stay willingly in the sun,

for it has never been out of the way of the sunlight;

after all, the scalding sun helps it grow, no matter if it may someday help it die.

When a cloudy day comes, it still mourns the loss of the pain, as no loss comes without grief.

And when the reaper finally leaves, and the sun disappears,

and the lotus has become used to its wilted buds,

grief is gone and no one notices the darkness.