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all my flowers are gone,
to pools of faded colours.
lost in seas of ripples
each time I reach to touch.
all my flowers are withered,
dying,
void of guidance.
not like the weed,
growing in spite of it all,
because of it all.
so I lay,
withered and dying.
waiting
for that promised day
when it all falls into place.
when I fleetingly stir
from beneath my rock
to reap
what’s at my feet:
second hand,
misshapen,
bruised fruit.
it’s not mine,
but its not too bad.
this new flower is rich and clear.
though it’s not my colour.
and I’m not dried anymore.
and I’m not the weed:
unwanted,
controlled,
contained,
crippled.
it’s not mine,
but I’m free.
free to take what’s given.
free to wither
when it’s not as it seems.
it’s not my colour .
I choose it to fade.
I toss it to the pool.
this pool I’ve been lead to,
to drink,
to drown.
this pool before me,
inescapable from my
lazy
still
gaze.
the weed is here,
but I’d have to move to see it,
and the pool isn’t too bad,
laid out at my feet.
now I see it all,
and now I see the drain.
do I reach for it?
reach past the ripples,
past the pool,
to the plug
at the end?
no.
it’s not the plug.
I’m not sure
it’s the plug.
I’m sure it’s the weed,
distracting
my flower inside
Word Count: 242
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