The puddle in the mind

A lotus bloomed over a puddle

Glistening in the morning sun.

A cheer to the shepard

and to the maiden alike,

While the fisherman pondered on.

 

A lesser plant, never seen,

A strangled seed never green,

Another lotus born together

But never deserving any cheer.

 

What makes one a lotus

What strangles the seed unborn

What of the broken weed

Which shall only get a scorn.

 

Is it the puddle’s devious design

Or the perseverance of the lotus fine

Or the divisive eye of the human

That a lotus blooms

While the weed is kraken

 

If the beholder constructs beauty

Then isnt the puddle too in his mind?

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