Does a star by itself, has the right to exist,
Should we read between the lines, to get the poem's gist.
Does an orchid need to justify, why its tender and fragile,
Do I need to hide my hide, behind a fancy prose style.
What if the star is dead, only its light shining through,
If a poem moves us, do we have to agree with the poets view?
Maybe the orchid is a fake, made of material that is strong,
If something can rhyme and pierce, is writing as prose so wrong?
The star was alas imaginary, a twinkle in my eyes,
My poem is contrived, mixing truth with lies.
The orchid was a dream, more vivid than smell,
That I'll call my free verse sonnet, who could for one tell.
From the ashes of the supernova, a new star will be born,
I'll bloom an orchid daily, no matter how much I'm depleted or worn.