Doesn’t dare to look at them,
With a Band-Aid over her mid-finger,
She just strokes the branches
Fear? No. Anger? Maybe.
Distrust? Possibly. Revenge? Definitely.She used to love flowers.
One red flower, in particular.
The first she ever bonded with. Small and pretty.
It was a blue sky and a green field
like those that exist in Grimms’ Tales.
She plucked her first flower.
Did she not care? Over the grove she would stare;
Simply saying it’s where my heart hath found it’s lair.
She kissed and hugged and did all
What passionate writers of women say you should do.
But neither these writers nor she, did find the prick
Much noteworthy. Why blotch a verse of beauty with
the thorn of reality?
Till she pricked her hand.
The flower(bored by now with the antics) fell
and hid itself inside another bush of its own
Frightened and panicked, she rustled
Her hand went in, hard. Too hard.
Not her fault was it?(She didn’t know.
She thought flowers were just pretty)
Mother Nature is selfish. You take something from her,
She will take it back. With interest, if you aren’t careful..
She found it. She found it. Oh such mirth!
Except now, it was all shrivelled and rotten.
Disgusted, repulsed, she threw it away.
Crying, those eyes like diamonds. Precious at demise.
Turned to go home.
Bleeding scratches on hands and heart;
She cried, “I will never set foot here again!”
And I, watching from the shadows,
Laughed hard and wide and loud.
‘Coz once you enter, my son,
There is no going back.