it's time I let this delicate flower
grow helpless with warm wet soil
shaded by its dark restless place
in the corridor space she sits slumped

plumb pedals try to stretch out of bed
instead a clinched fist holds the mold
bizarrely stricken rhythmically
thorns cut rigorously like Demond Angels

left alone to embrace the cold
she boldly fought suicide
severely growing free from me
I thought only now this was prophesied

let alone in spring her stem thickens
bark prisons rough skin
the outside of branches outstretched
spring blossoms endlessly thin

this family of mindless birds
grow to uneasy words of faithful tendency
clinging to the tree when we think the going is tough, it's partly our
inability to speak freely
seemingly regardless apology promptly fades souls from good to evil
still sits one little bird, clinched gladly to a leaf blowing in the wind...