I pressed every issue,
Like flow’rs to the page.
Jilted in blue light purgatory,
Taking hours to escape.
I learned to hold my tongue,
Instead of an idle hand.
Dislodged your silent thorns;
Old wounds remind me who I am
Foundation’ly speaking,
I’m no different than before.
Crumbling at the core,
Soaring steadfastly forlorn.
Yet, a lone lily blooms,
While the vultures pick our bones.
Crows binge on breadcrumbs,
But the pedals keep growing.
I’ll tend to these struggling roots,
And let loose one last dove,
In hope my anguish finds you.
And this broken branch is enough.
I’ll fly on wounded wings,
And transplant this hidden shame.
Each second of strain is worth it.
To press my flow’r to your page.