I stand in a field, as a child,
A simple flower, I hold in my palm,
A symbol of how easily something can be crushed or blown away,
Nurture this beauty and sigh away my pains,
A lotus, the soul of my love,
I hold in my hand.

As I contemplated these thoughts,
An Angel made itself known, walking in, with no halo or Holy Father,
Suddenly I felt insecure and stupid,
A boy in love with a flower.

It approached me and took my hands in its palms gently,
An angel maybe but a woman I was sure,
She possessed soft hands like small pieces of stroking silk,
Encasing my hands so they formed like fists.

A panic, I fell into fear as I began to crush my love, my flower,
Anxiety and pain, my heart began to cry and so did I,
She smiled and opened my hands palm up to show me,
The flower was still there and as perfect as uncrushed.

I awoke from this dream, a man,
I realised the flower was my love and my hands the rest of the world,
The hands are unable to crush what I love,
Love is something more, something untouchably strong,
As I studied my dream and its meaning,
I realised I was holding something in my arms,
The flower, the angel, the woman
And my love.

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