transience

Then if you look for me -
I shall be long gone.
Ash of a winter bonfire,
Blood of an unburnt pyre.

Rose of my heart;
That blooms in spring mornings,
Withers defiantly in cold nights.
Day flirting with the shy twilight.

But should the light die;
Blind my soul and sight,
I shall bleed my heart dry.
Grow wings and fly.

© Siddhartha, 2014