The Passerby

There was a field overlaid with thousands of flowers

Daisies, roses, tulips and lavenders...

From this veil of colors, light fluttered into the air

and finally into the lungs of those seeking illumination after despair.

 When an obscure passerby suddenly came into sight,

she gently bowed her head regretfully,

as if her gloom deprived these flowers from all light,

as if the burden she carried trampled on them oh so heavily.

They say no flower trail ever leads to serenity.

However, that thought never crossed her impenetrable mind,

for the passerby was also a flower among those of this scenery.

Like roots, her feet and the soil underneath combined.

She was cut from the ground too swiftly,

leaving her raw and destined to die alone.

Unlike the other blooms, she was cowardly,

timid, she kept her impudent colors to her own.

It started out with a simple ideal:

beauty, she knew a speak of dust could not spoil.

however the ideal turned into a molding rather surreal,

witch despoiled her entirely, from tip to soil.

All the passerby ever wanted was to be flawless,

Was it really too extravagant to ask for?

She did not see that visitors would admire her regardless

for she was poisoned to the core.

Never had a flower been so gloom,

she dreaded dawning to judge full gazers with deception.

Will she grow to become a precious lily or an onion?

An eternity of uncertain glimmering was her doom.

In this mellow meadow, she had not yet found her significance,

among the roses, red as blood

and among the tulips, blooms of beauty and elegance,

she was left starving in the cold mud.

One day, she turned her back to the sun deliberately

she then created winter in her own head.

Beware, a flower that blooms in obscurity

is consumed by darkness and haunted by the dead.

If only this passerby would reach out to gardeners,

those who could water her roots to end her starvation.

Sadly, she will never seek help from foreigners.

It is too late to avoid this self condemnation.

Maybe one day, this suffering will not be in vain,

She is the ruler of the undergrounds forever.

maybe one day, she will silence her pain,

trespasser beware, she will bring you down with her.

I doubt that this day will come where she will be healed,

no one recovers from this deadly obsession.                  

The passerby, defeated, makes her way across the field,

where too many flowers blossom without recognition.