little Red flower still young for her days
stands out alone in the field among all the other greys.
The grey flowers were prettier, little Red was not
she was just one in a field where grey was alot.
they made her the different, they made her the odd
she wanted to leave behind the field but could not
she used to dream of a field that was all Red
where she'd find a family, a soulmate, a welcome bed.
the farmer's boy watching afar from his tower
admires little Red, the lone separate flower
he sees her face change day after day
he wants the flower to be his, for he loves not the greys.
he wants to take good care of little Red
he'll give all his heart to keep her from dread
down the field of monochromes the little boy goes wading
to the Red dot in the distance, silently waiting.
in tender hands he cradles the bud
but he didn't understand why little Red wept, eyes drowned in a flood
in a glass by the window overlooking the lawn
now stands little Red, safe but forlorn.
for now she does realize what this new love does to her
it's wilting her petals, it's killing the flower
she gazed for the last time at the field that's now all grey
dropped her last petal, in a crystal coffin she lay.
the farmer's boy wept for he loved so the flower
a couple of hours later, little Red he replaced with another.
