A petal, Soft, slightly creased, so bright, Even the "imperfections" make them all the more awe-inspiring. They bloom, blossom, colours so vibrant that you dont want to look away, merely take in its beauty. But the more you look, The more it creases, the wrinckles, Suddenly, those imperfections consume the petal, It shrivels, colour draining, It's withering, beauty being sucked and drained out of it. The softness stiffens, and even a breath too heavy causes the petal to crumble like ash. The imperfections that made beauty, Later, it destroyed it.