I sometimes ponder to why some flowers

light up like the sun?

Every soul is a tulips or roses,

But why am I a catkin? 

I felt like I was in a garden of aesthetic,

Instead of the willow tree.

Everyone talks in an alluvium way,

While I speak in conceit euphemism.

I wonder if I can contain a core

that wells up words like them.

I perform orison to the empyrean:

“Let me shed into something luminous”

But I ended up being swallowed by a murky pond,

Where I started to submerge in despondency.

“I’ll soon bloom into a gilded lily,”

I enunciate as I prostrate towards the lucent labyrinth.