The Song of the Flower

SONG OF THE FLOWER

 (A poem by V. Purtseladze)

He stands upon the stage in blinding light,
A hollow prince adorned in false acclaim.
He blossoms  in his self-absorbed delight.
Each note he plays is whispering her name.

She was the flame he wove into a tune —
His silent breath, his echo, slow and dim...
And yet, he craved to shine apart too soon: 
He let her drown, so he could learn to swim.

She walked away; his tears he shaped in art—
A ghost to haunt his melodies in vain.
For what he craved was not her naked heart,
But bleeding chords to turn his loss to gain.

He forged his grief beneath a frozen sky,
A tale of loss the world would die to keep...
The pain he sings did never hurt—he lies,
Yet skillfully enough to make crowds weep.

Who only live to carve their name in stone
Will never learn to love beyond their frame.
A heart that beats for self will not belong,
For love takes more than vanity and fame.

The world believes his sorrow, pure and true,
Yet in the dark, She sings—not Him, but through.

P.S.: Some artists create greatness but never embody it.

(c) March 2025
#valeriapurtseladzepoetry