if roses always blossomed in concrete,
perhaps people wouldn't dislike the thorns.
they would look at its precious petals,
admiring the very miracle as it was.

I see people the same way,
little seeds planted into the dirt
nurtured with the water of purity
stained with the sun of love
cooled by the darkness that festers
within us
and
risen from the concrete thoughts
of simplicity and content
for the little things,
the love of holding hands
on the park bench
sipping cocoa underneath
the winter moon.

if roses always blossomed in concrete,
being different,
normality,
the very labels of society
wouldn't have such values.
people could walk along the streets
with their imperfections
without having to hide behind
a mask
no quarantine
could ever warrant.
a woman could fall in love
simply,
truly in love with a man
of whom walked along
the wire
less traveled.

instead,
we are bound by the typical rules of nature.
the dirt is no longer nurtured so much as it is
coarse and rough.
the water is tainted,
stained with poisonous
judgment,
bad-mouthing,
words that sting like bumblebees.
the sun no longer shines
in our direction...
it is dark.
cold.
the darkness we once relied on
becomes our undoing.