The White Lily

For the White Lily, whose experience was buried below her roots.

The warm summer sun shines on the yet to flourish, White Lily--

closed in innocent repose                   

not yet awakening.

Her tightly locked petals, folded within themselves, hushed in reservation,

stands in solitude, surrounded by a vast wilted acre of lilies. 

The White Lily's fresh alluring structures glimmer in the light;

the shriveled lilies' heads droop,

for their structures once glimmered,

before meeting the touch under the sun’s shadow.

Oh, poor, White Lily--their heads droop further to their roots.

A weed, tempted by The White Lily's perfume,

the untouched sacred lips filled with sweet pollen,

the curves of life,

                     reaches closer, fondling her stem

Slithering closer and closer, ignoring the writhing beneath,

gripping the lips of the White Lily’s petals.

Closed. The White Lily's petals are closed, yet, with much invasive prying, she blooms.

  Awake. 

Now only cold moonlight shines on the withering lily,

Such frigid air, her petals fall one by one,

for the sun has unknowingly brought gloom on a flower that thrives on light.

Deflowered.

Author's Note

This is sort of a prose I wrote and would love to receive any type of feedback on it. I am not experienced enough with writing poems or proses, but I am willing to learn. Let me know your thoughts or suggestions. I appreciate any feedback (: