A Dandelion Bud

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On the roadside,
down the hill,
beside the river bank,
the dandelion flower blooms.

White it is, as white as peace,
and is set to spread,
across the seven seas.
Like the words I’ve uttered.

Can it take the spores back?
Can it bring it together until it’s a bud?
Can it simply bloom and be loved?

Regret deeper than red,
dye its mind,
as spores spread far and wide.
The red that slowly turns black,
a permanent death.