She was named after a flower, a majestic blend of red and blue, wilted before she has a chance to bloom, smothered by passion she once thought was love, her slender frame drowns in sorrow, when her lover boards the train to Moscow.
Desolated, she dances cheek to cheek with strangers in houndstooth coat and soft pale hands.
An outcast in her family, she sits by the bookshelf waiting for the song playing on the gramophone.
A stranger knocks on her door, a replica of her lover with eyes of thunderstorms in a different soul
He pays for a nights worth to taste the flower nestled in the heart of Shangrila.
She looks into the mirror, her majestic eyes glorified when he sings her name in his breath as the flower in his father’s painting.