Monday, August 24, 2015

August 2011 | Mary, Mary (Quite Contrary)

She wants to be a blood-red rose,
but she is still a seed.
She can't break from beneath the dirt,
buried in naivety.
The grass beneath grows up and up,
like ivy around a wire,
but she stays down beneath the ground,
thinking she's so much higher.

In her mind, she's as crimson as
the life that flows within reaching veins,
and, in her mind, she shines brighter than
the loveliest of days.
But if she could ever push her face up
to bask beneath the sun,
she would not be a rose or red,
but a wilting, crumbling bud.

Her stalk would be far too weak
to support the weight of her vanity,
and her leaves would all be shredded from
her false acts of insanity.
While all around her, colorful flowers
burst and stretch into bloom,
she imagines she's something exotic and strong,
while laying in the murky gloom.

She waits and waits for a prince to come
and carry her off to the land of her dreams.
But no one of royalty would think to look down
beneath the a lowly seed.

Mary, Mary (Quite Contrary) | By Bryn Poliwczynski 

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