Bamboo plant (this is not for the assignment)

Hi all,
I wrote this poem recently, and I just had a revelation: perhaps it would work better as a prose poem or short short than an actual poem. I wondered if anyone could provide feedback on which version they like best (or none at all!). There are 2 versions below; in the first version, please imagine each section as an indented paragraph with no double space. I couldn't get it to indent, so I double-spaced each paragraph. Thanks for your opinion!

WHAT I DID TO MY BAMBOO PLANT (each section is meant to be a paragraph, not a stanza)

It was a slow killing process, really; not like the quick whap of newspaper crushing unsuspecting mosquito wings, but more like gentle evaporation of life.

It was unintentional; well, at first anyway. I got busy and forgot it needed a weekly drink, but life interfered.

I can’t say I felt guilty, not at first—fascinating how the green filled with fine veins of darker green, which withered into the wrinkled skin of late life. The truth was, I liked watching it, watching the strong fibers dry up, wondering what stage would come next in the slow process of losing life.

At the first prick of regret, I moved it into the sun, expecting that great effulgence to beam energy into the yellowing death of a pathetic life. By the time the once-green stalks became parched brown, and I had trimmed the dead leaves so it was bald as a chemo patient, a strange thing happened: I felt panicked.

I so badly want to save it now that I will tend it ten-fold, give it drinks daily to make up for all the weeks of missed life.

But I know I can’t.

It is nearly gone, so I don’t bother to water it as it thirsts by the window sill and shrivels to nothing more than a shell of lost life.



What I Did to My Bamboo Plant

It was a slow killing process, really;
not like the quick whap of newspaper
crushing unsuspecting mosquito wings,
but more like gentle evaporation of life.

It was unintentional;
well, at first anyway.
I got busy and forgot
it needed a weekly drink,
but life interfered.

I can’t say I felt guilty, not at first—
fascinating how the green filled with
fine veins of darker green, which withered
into the wrinkled skin of late life.

The truth was, I liked watching it,
watching the strong fibers dry up
wondering what stage would
come next in this slow loss of life.

At the first prick of regret, I moved it
into the sun, expecting that great
effulgence to beam energy
into the yellowing death of a pathetic life.

By the time the once-green stalks became
parched brown, and I had trimmed the dead
leaves so it was bald as a chemo patient,
a strange thing happened.

I felt panicked. I so badly want
to save it now that I will tend it
ten-fold, give it drinks daily to make up
for all the weeks of missed life.

But I know I can’t. It is nearly
gone, so I don’t bother to water it
as it thirsts by the window sill
and shrivels to nothing more
than a shell of lost life.