A flower so beautiful
Yet so brittle
A rare possibility.
Growing spontaneously
In a garden of engenuity
Where everything is
So complex..
Each new bloom
Is more diverse
Than next
The garden now seen..
From a place
Where everything
Is exaclty the same..
Where the rose
Is suspected
As just a flower
With the ability
Of love
No sense of devour
And as ignorant
As those
As the "ability"
To judge..
Love
As a meaningless..
Possibility
Than those who see..
Only a garden of snakes..
Will never dine
In the peasants inn
Of heritage and courage
Because he who sees
Only a flower
As a plant..
Is as ignorant as..
Those self dignified
To sign loans and
Grants..
What if the flower
Is more than we see
What if trapped inside
The mind of a person..
Not recognized
By society..
The flower is more
Than we can identify...
Just don't forget..
Your opinion..
Can brittlize..
The fragments of
What's left of it..
Because in the end...
Even love
Calls quits