Some flowers bloom in the dark,
Unseen by sunshine they crave,
Untended but for one tender touch.
Still, they bloom.
Unnourished as a plagued plain,
With buds of waxen green,
Unwatered, never to be seen.
Still, they bloom.
Sometimes, a flap of a moth’s wing,
Stirs a whirlwind held in place and time,
And they tremble from stalk to roots.
Still, they bloom.
Seeds planted by pastel smocks,
And home-cut locks, twinkling eyes,
And smiles, and innocent sighs.
Still, they bloom.
Through the dusk of ages,
They grow unadorned,
Eternal as the night before morn.
Still, they bloom.
Yet, they radiate like midsummer’s sun,
Blazing like a bonfire flare,
In that place where no one stares.
Still, they bloom.
They breathe without lungs,
In the beating heart of fleshy caves,
In the hearths with no fire.
Still, they bloom.
They burn dreams to stay warm,
Dreams of things that never were,
Consuming themselves like Phoenix.
Still, they bloom.
Perennial partners since milk break.
Still, it blooms.
Missives & Musings 