I am not a flower.

I do not bloom just by the glorious

rays of sunshine in the spring.

I am not obliterated

by just the mere changing

of the seasons to the next.

I do not wither away when my

world starts to darken

and bitter coldness swallows up

the warmth of the sun.

I am not this fragile thing,

or delicate,

to the winter's icy storms.

The falling of dead, dull leaves

to the Earth beneath my feet

will not be the burial

to my very life source.

No.

You can not reborn something

that had never been destroyed.

I am not a flower.

I am a survivor-

in the light and in the dark.

Of all the things
I could have been-
I am a stray voice
of a peculiar tone,
bearing no face,
stumbling within a crowd
of congenial strangers.
I am an astronaut
trapped hovering above the Earth-
not truly a part of,
not really connected,
but an outsider left
in love with the world
and all its beauty,
from a distance.
I am the painting
from a surrealist mind
of no name
that hangs in the
shadowed, empty halls
of a foreign country.

And so it comes-
all at once-
like a swarm of horseflies,
plump and ugly,
filling the space around
the air that I breathe.
They are persistent, quiet creatures-
all but a low hum of a noise-
stabbing and striking,
then, returning for me
once more.

They find me
wandering peacefully
alongside the riverbank
while fresh, clean air fills my lungs
and the warm sun glistens off
the whites of my beaming teeth.
But, these horseflies are poison
infecting me with the vile they hold.

And suddenly,
I am so crowded
I'm sure I'll suffocate by the air
they are swarming around in.
Then suddenly, I'm so sure that
the river will swallow me in an instant.
And I am sure to drown in it's waters-
my own body controlled by
where it's current takes me.
So sure- that the sun will go dark
and the warmth will but be all gone.
The tranquil of this riverbank
transforming into the remnants of
chaos and disaster.

Until, at last, I recall that this poison
is just that-
Poison.
It's all but a temporary illusion
by an infected reality.
For I still walk alongside the riverbank.
I can still feel the air in my lungs.
And the warmth of the sun still embraces me-
it's light still shimmering in my eyes
and on the whites of my beaming teeth.

Most of the political world
needs to reevaluate on
how indifferent neutrality
and tactful compromise
does not amount to
equal measures
in a thriving democracy.

Like a smoldering
black tar smoke
erupting the demons
of the world's
very own Pandora Box,
it engulfs me with
a thick heaviness sticking
into the walls of my lungs.
I can feel every particle
burrowing into my life source.
And I cannot breathe
as these entities named
Apparent Cruelty,
Blind Prejudice,
Self-righteous Greed,
Conformed Ruthlessness,
smother me like a form
of slow dry drowning.
Helpless.
I am a foreigner to these presences-
they find no home,
no comfort,
within me.
But, then my sweet daughter,
reaches her hand out to me,
asking me to hold her.
And these entities,
they cringe away
from her touch on my skin.
Scurry away from the light beaming
from her eyes as she looks at me.
The world's Pandora box
around me slams shut.
And I can breathe again.
Because inside me
I house the embodiments of
Kindness,
Love,
Consideration,
Gentleness.
And in there, also, lies Hope.

When an Autumn
starts to truly come
I like to sing into the air
of the world
the sweetest spring lullabies
of much sunnier days,
just to try to
hide away the crumbling sound
of falling dry, dead leaves.

How does
one single person
change
the world,
their country,
when the world,
their country,
finds comfort
in their
oppressive ignorance?