it's not the pale moon that excites me

I was talking to a flower the other day.

It called itself ugly. 

I made it look at each of it's petals. 

Each petal had it's own story, its own meaning. 

I told the flower, "because you don't see how you're beauty has affected the world doesn't mean it hasn't."

The flower cried, and smiled. 

I had to go, but the flower was alive in my heart, and in the chapelle where my dreams linger, like fog.

I was crying. 

I talked to the flower. 

I was ugly, and I didn't want to believe otherwise. 

But then, the flower made me look at every spot on my hide.

It told me, "jaguar, you're beautiful. Look at your big paws, your gentile eyes, soft hide."

I didn't know what to do. 

The flower continued: "Take this, my petal." 

I couldn't, and I ran. 

I entered the holy place, the sanctuary. I talked to my dreams, and breathed in the fog. 

I approached the flower again, in the presence of an irish lady. 

Soon, that lady just became another blob in the background as the flower mesmerized me with sweet smells of baby powder. 

I asked for that petal. I needed that petal. 

I was mad, mad at myself. 

Why hadn't I just taken the petal in the first place? 

What if I never get that petal?

Then the flower whispered in my ear. 

I can't tell you what I was told, but I can tell you it was sweeter that honey, softer than velvet, lighter than air, and as delicate as a newly sown spider web, waving in the breeze. 

I got my petal. 

This petal is like a jem to me.

This jem reflects only images of myself. 

But these reflections enter my soul. 

These reflections makes me see life in a whole way.