We are rare, so very few.
Burning flags atop metallic poles.
We sway in the breeze like any other,
but burn bright and hot,
then drift through air as dust.
We are rare, so very few.
Shimmering gold in a pan of black stone.
We are hard and tough like you,
but so unique and valuable;
they trade us away for things they think they want.
We are rare, so very few.
Dark freckles on a young girl’s pure face.
Seen as flawed and undesired;
they cover us up, hide us away like rabid animals.
We are rare, so very few.
Lines of a poem printed in regal script.
We have depth and meaning,
but are tossed aside as incoherent, misinterpreted as nonsensical.
We are rare, so very few.
Dead branches of a winter tree reaching for the gray sky.
We are alive and bare, worn and transparent,
but only beautiful and accepted when the foliage grows anew.
We are rare, so very few.
We show our scars and embrace our past.
We admit to the shattered bits and expect no recovery.
We’re not afraid of who we are, only what we can do.
We walk in shadows because the world has left us there.