Dear sweet and putrid Flower
I find myself riveted by your solitude.
And there is no better method for passing the day
In this jail-cell we call freedom
Than contemplating your petals red as blood
Whose dye swiftly smeared across the veins of my liberal heart.
You are aware of my confinement, and I welcome it so
Just as I have welcomed my dear father, with a riveting glow.
Flower, poor dear
Rebellious and so battered
To be plucked and swept off the soils
That have hindered your growth.
I find it ideal and you would gladly welcome
My own putrid aroma of dying roses.
And though you are a conflicted soul,
You speak the truth of a million voices
When you whisper the wise words
Of a soul as old as the setting Sun,
“There is only one path to Heaven.
On Earth, we call it Love.”*
* Goldman, Karen. (2/21/2015). “Love.”