A somewhat tricky poem about a precious flower which represents something about me. |
-A Precious Flower- by Keaton Foster A precious flower Growing in a field of weeds And forever darkness believed Such a realm is all that it knows The home of its Metaphorical skin and bones Survival has always been its way It’s only playable game It has and continues to do What it certainly must Self-preservation is its god It’s one absolute truth In the wilderness of its kind It does not raise the sun Or fall the moon It does not control Any part of its own reality Or the causality of its situation It is a precious flower And all that it does Is what it knows it must to get From one second to the next Its stem is battered and bruised Its petals are stained Repugnant it would appear To anyone with the clarity To see it for what it is But in such absolute darkness It’s terrible secrets are kept Given all that it was given And considering all that was taken It does what it can exceedingly well Its roots run quite deep To the core of all being It would take a brutal grip To rip it from its bosom It would take a power far greater Than any light and darkness combined Present time applied Reality with regard to Such a precious flower Continues to be undermined No one can stop it Who and more importantly What would even dare It grows, it will not stall Sooner it will reach a height Beyond the emptiness of its plight It will see the light of the world above It will feel something unsure But without fear it will grow on Reaching the unreachable But it will always know That it will be forever grounded Within the absolute darkness From which it comes… A Precious Flower Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2012. |