I hate
Those things.
Like, the
Thoughts that
Say to
Me that
I should
Follow
Set and
Well-known
Rules.
Thank you,
And just
Ignore
My whine.

As I walked, I spotted
On the ground in the cracks
Of cement, a flower.
A ****, yes, but a flower
Nonetheless. It was trampled flat
Though still alive, reaching a leaf
For sunlight, help. I went by.

Yet still it hangs on my mind.
Still I see it reaching out,
Crying, wondering what it did
To deserve this. It remains like
The lost child: unsure, panicked, dejected.

As I walked, I spotted
On the ground in the cracks
Of cement, a flower.
A ****, yes, but a flower
Nonetheless. It was trampled flat
Though still alive, reaching a leaf
For sunlight, help. I picked it
And put it in a vase.

As I walked, I spotted
On the ground in the cracks
Of cement, a flower.
A ****, yes, but a flower
Nonetheless. It was trampled flat
Though still alive, reaching a leaf
For sunlight, help. I went by.

Yet still it hangs on my mind.
Still I see it reaching out,
Crying, wondering what it did
To deserve this. It remains like
The lost child: unsure, panicked, dejected.

As I walked, I spotted,
On the ground in the cracks
Of cement, a different flower.
A ****, yes, but a flower
Nonetheless. It was stretched out
Tall, full, bloomed, looking towards
The sunlight and reveling in it.
I picked it and put it in a vase.

What have you
Around you
That scorns so?

Misery.

What have you
Around you
That pains so?

Lost wishes.

What have you
Inside you
That feels?

Not a thing.

Large, Red Snowflakes flit
To the ground. The wind
Carries them around,
Forcing them into
Strange places; Locked in
Grilles; Drowned in Rivers;
Caught in the Smoke of
Roaring Fires; Blown
Into places that
They do not belong,
Like Fields, Sewage,
And the garage. Orange
Yellow, some even Green,
And, of course, Red.
Underneath them exists
Some sort of Ground: Grass,
Asphalt, Tombstones--It
Could be anything.
Renewal will come,
All will be shown once
More, Schedules will
Resume--But, until
Then, all that is seen
Are Large, Red Snowflakes
Scattered on the Ground.

That hint of a childish smile.
The type of longing smile.
The smile that sees, that knows, that desires, that wills, that wants, but         cannot have.
It is a farce.
The smile hides.
It implies.
It is covered, like a pit to trap a wild animal, leaves concealing the certain death that rests beneath a drop.
Aware, knowing of what it is doing, hiding, preventing.
But still it slips.
It still shows.
It shows the truth, the thoughts, the feelings.
That you do not want to show, do not want to have.
But do.
So it surfaces.
Lightly.
Enough, so that the knowing, wary, familiar eye may catch it.
And embrace it.

I see you in the shadows,
See you waiting for something
That probably will not come,
Like the child wondering
Where Daddy has gone to and
Waiting for him to return.
I see you in the fields,
See you with your arms spread wide,
Calling out in a language
That I do not understand,
On your knees, begging, crying,
Hoping to repair your sins.
I see you back where I first
Witnessed your atrocities:
Your back arched, you gasping for
Breath, clothes strewn about the room,
Disheveled hair, tears streaming
Down your cheeks, makeup smearing...
I see you now, outside of
A brick building, a living
Thing inside of you, though not
For much longer. I see you
Come out, disgusted. You see
Me, and I apologize.