Nothing but Timid

Can't bloom in its full that finds end at bud,
For has not found its color to divulge;
When awaited petals cover its fad,
That seem phobic to sun's rays that effulge.
And motives that could not be read what might,
Might be red but not to be white nor blue;
Yet keeps on walking unto its feared sight,
To be with empty by the tempest blew.
Oh when will thou be able to savour,
If negation has made thee uncertain,
Even if had impeccable colour,
When'd failed for its existence to attain.
Thou must find thy self saying thy heart's line,
Or but die for not letting this to shine.