Knights and buds

A story must never be left untold.

Late at night, dark as the mud,
A story sits – trapped in a bud,
In a thought, it dreams of a knight,
no deity – no divinity – just sleight,
to use the blade to carefully cut,
the delicate fibers of the bud.
If you cut hastily or not earnestly,
a major part of the story is left,
and if you refuse to cut deliberately,
the bud follows ‘to bloom’ behest.
A story is to be told when it is ready –
If you wait for it to bloom and flower,
you will see it to be rich in colours and beauty,
a striking rose in a garden full of lilies,
but to a keen eye, it will just be treacly.
a blend of lost colour,
a show of forced survival,
so much for the beauty that it is,
to be plucked foremost and sold,
the hidden message still untold.
The longer a thing waits,
the faster it loses colour.

When a door knocks, open.
When a bell rings, answer.
When a heart calls, respond.
Yours is a world full of buds,
and so it is full of knights.