The Small one, Not the Weak

The Small one, Not the Weak

Alone in her garden,
the flower, she sits.
Lost in the soil,
and rocks all around,
the weeds run amuck,
and threaten her life.
But there she stands,
so proud and tall
not willing to become,
a thorn like the rest.
They taunt and tease her
for standing alone,
“follow the rest,”
they cleverly say,
“join our ways and life you’ll know.”
Closer they draw
and slither her way.
Through bared teeth they say,
“why do you still stand?
you look so weak,
lie down with us
and you’ll know peace.”
The flower so bright,
she straightens her stem,
and a bustled mockery
does spittle throughout the dying garden.
But none the less she stands,
and stands alone, with her head held high.