Naivety was I,

encountering friends with palls behind.

Dominating over a conscience refined,

divine of white,

designed of life.

The past grew a bud,

a promising rose,

empty pledges it was.

For the bud grew into Rafflesia,

odiferous it is.

Not preferred by many yet beauty farther it could be seen by any,

who had eyes to look past the blinding scent.

Was the past undone, or had it been the future?

Scry towards opportunities aplenty,

fuming rage built by many.

If uncanny,

it was to change entirely.

The odds have built-in my favor absolutely,

for one vowed to bring torture to one's self if something was to gain.

For each grain of rice,

for each pain endured, waves falter to move towards an island of gold,

As if Athens, seeking a vat of hope.

As a pope revered by many,

scry to light,

loathed by many for greed and vexation make humans seen incredulous.

Despite human nature becoming lost in buds scandalous.